


For a Share of Gold

by medusine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rough Sex, Sexual Dysfunction, Slow Burn, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, bisexual james flint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 72,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14188332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: The things John Silver would do for a share of gold - lies, deceptions, betrayals, even putting his own life in danger. But most dangerous of all, perhaps, may well be getting entangled in the complicated life of Captain Flint, and the mysterious woman he always comes home to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a one-shot for @Arzani-fuchsia on Tumblr, based on the prompt "You’re going to get us expelled!". Then I figured it was the best way to begin this very long very complicated S2 AU that brings together three of my favourite characters. Slow burn because it involves a pair of idiots, rated explicit for future chapters.

“My dear friends, I beseech your help and your charity. My name is Juan de Silva. My bodyguard and I have lost my ship and crossed the terrible wilds to finally arrive in the haven of your town.”

The words tripped off Silver's tongue in Spanish, mellifluous sounds that attracted a small excited crowd around them. As they'd expected, the townsfolk was eager to find out more about the bedraggled strangers that had stumbled into St Augustine just as bells rang the end of mass.

Flint's jaw clenched in a spasm of rage. He hated this. He hated standing there while Silver, for the third time since they'd set out, was entirely in charge of the conversation. He hated that they little chance of escape if Silver said the wrong thing.

He hated that his plan to take the warship had been thwarted. And this time the defeat was all the more bitter because his own body has betrayed him. That fucking gunshot wound had burned so terribly in the saltwater that Flint had sunk within three strokes, half-faint with pain and exhaustion.

Silver had dragged him out of the water – again. He'd also taken advantage of Flint's vulnerable state to convince him to walk all the way to St Augustine, pretending to be Spaniards. The worst part of it, for Flint's pride at least, was that Silver's bloody harebrained idea had actually worked.

“How did we come here, you ask?” Silver said, though nobody had asked anything. “Ah, it is the most incredible story.”

Flint breathed deep, willing himself to keep calm as Silver geared up to tell his tale. They'd been approached by Tequesta and Ais natives on the road to St Augustine, and Silver had fed them tales too – two rather different tales actually, each as preposterous as the other. Flint suspected the natives didn't understand Spanish all that well or simply didn't care. Attacking Spaniards would result in retribution on their tribes, and so they had been graceful enough not to shoot these strangers through with poison arrows.

Here, though, in a town full of people whose mother tongue was Spanish, Flint didn't like their chances. He'd told Silver to be brief, not to speak too much, to feign weakness from their journey, to avoid any identifying information. Of course, Silver hadn't listened. “My ship”, really? And did Silver realise that he was trying to pass himself off as Spanish aristocracy? He'd asked to borrow all of Flint's rings, in order to look the part of a rich man down on his luck, but Flint wasn't convinced that he knew exactly how deep he had dug himself in.

Why the fuck Flint had agreed to any of it was beyond him. If they survived this, it'd be a fucking miracle. And if they didn't, he'd throttle the little shit himself before the townspeople could lynch them.

“My ship was bound for Cuba, but a storm pushed us off course. Then pirates chased us all the way to Florida,” Silver continued with a tragic vibrato to his voice. “They were English pirates, of course, ugly and brutal as they are wont to be.” Eyes in the audience slid over to Flint. His red hair and freckled skin stood out like a sore thumb. “Him? Oh no, he's Irish, my friends. A good catholic like us, oppressed by the English swine and their bastard mockery of our faith.”

It worked. It fucking worked. The crowd grumbled and spat at the mention of the English and their religion. They were entranced, avidly lapping up Silver's lies. Flint should have expected nothing less from the kind of con man he suspected Silver to be, yet he couldn't help but admire his talent.

“And so my bodyguard, Seamus – that's what the Irish call Iago in their strange tongue – Seamus here defended me with his life when the pirates caught up with us and took over my ship. He's a wonderful swordsman, and strong, and incredibly loyal. Do you see the wounds he endured to protect me? Show them your shoulder, Seamus.”

A shiver went through Flint despite the scorching sun. How the fuck had Silver guessed Flint's origins? Did he actually know his name was James? Or were these all lucky guesses? Apparently, it didn't matter. Silver's story made sense. The crowd's eyes was staring at Flint now with something akin to admiration in their eyes.

Silver raised his eyebrows at him. “If you please, Seamus?”

The fucking gall of that man! Flint pushed aside his ragged shirt and exposed the gaping wound on his shoulder. There were more cuts and scrapes, some healing, some still fresh, all across his chest and face. Hums of awe and pity rose in the crowd.

“If it were not for Seamus, I would surely be dead,” Silver continued. “When the pirates sank my ship, he and I jumped into the sea together, although he was badly wounded. We managed to swim to the coast, and then we walked here, where we knew we would find safety.”

The crowd burst into soft chatter. But while Flint could understand most of what Silver said, he couldn't make out the townspeople's speech. They spoke too fast, mumbling and muttering amongst themselves. Their tone didn't sound aggressive though – for now.

“Sir, where do you come from?” asked a man at last. “Only, your accent…”

“Oh, that.” And there it was. Flint could see the panic in Silver's grin, sharp as a knife. Apparently he hadn't expected that question.

“Toledo,” Flint mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, half-remembering something he'd heard about the House of Silva.

“My family is from Toledo,” Silver said, his grin broadening. “But I have travelled much, and kept company with people who hailed from many places. Sometimes I even have to speak English with my poor bodyguard, who is still learning Spanish. Please forgive my bastard accent, it is the price to pay for being cosmopolitan.” He laughed, and the crowd laughed with him. Flint could barely believe it.

The townspeople went into a huddle for a little while, making it even harder to hear what they were saying. Flint's blood ran cold when he heard the word “muertos”, but from the tone it sounded more as though they were marvelling that he and Silver _weren't_ dead rather than intending to kill them. He tried to suppress the twitch in his cheek when he heard “verdad”, unable to tell whether they were questioning the truth of Silver's story or simply using it to agree with each other.

Silver, next to him, seemed serene. He looked up at Flint and shot him a grin through chapped lips. The mere sight of the cocky little shit, all golden skin, bright eyes and impossibly white teeth, had Flint's blood boiling with rage.

But when the townsfolk turned back to them, they looked benevolent. The innkeeper promised them a room, food and some supplies to take care of their wounds. A lady offered to bring them some clean clothes. And a man who gave himself important airs said that they only needed to ask, he would help them replace their ship. Silver thanked them, exaggeratedly, nearly pathetically, and still they lapped it all up.

It wasn't long before they were shown to a room in the inn. The shutters were closed against the burning sun, making the room cool and dim. Flint would have enjoyed the comforting coolness after days of scorching sun, had he not still been seething at Silver's little act.

“What the fuck were you playing at?” Flint growled at Silver once the door was closed.

“That? That was me securing us food and lodgings until we're ready to move on.”

“That fucking story!” Flint took a menacing step towards Silver, so close that he could feel the heat coming off Silver's bare skin. “I told you to keep it simple! You’re going to get us expelled, at the very least, and they'll flog us before they do! And if they find out you're not Spanish–”

“Who says I'm not? Curly black hair, tanned skin, fluent in Spanish…”

“Are you?”

“That's really not the point, is it? Of course they'll try to make enquiries, but we'll be gone by the time they even get a messenger out to Cuba. In the meantime, they wouldn't _dare_ put someone as rich and influential as someone from the House of Silva in custody, would they?”

They were interrupted by a knock, and only then did Silver move away, leaving a cool void in front of Flint that somehow frustrated him even further.

The innkeeper had brought them fresh water, rum, bread, sausage and two plump oranges. Flint noted the gleam in Silver's eye at the sight of food, and couldn't fault him. The Ais had spared a little food for them, but he and Silver had mostly survived off water and sea lemons, the only fruit Flint recognised as being edible – and they'd been unripe and sour.

The man also had a basin of water, a small vial, and clean rags, “for the bodyguard”. Flint nodded with a grunt, playing the part of the loyal brute, then glared at Silver when the innkeeper left again.

Silver was already ripping the bread in half and biting into it. He gave Flint a grin, speaking through a mouthful of bread. “What? Is it the bodyguard thing that got to you? Or don't you like being called Irish?”

“Don't be fucking stupid,” Flint grumbled, trying to remove what remained of his shirt. He gave up when the pain from straining his fucking gunshot wound made his knees wobble. He bloody well hoped it wasn't rotting. He hadn't walked all the way to fucking St Augustine to die of a fever in a Spanish tavern, while Silver let himself be waited on hand and foot by a slew of gullible idiots.

“Is that it, though?” Silver came closer, still munching on bread and a chunk of sausage. “You're annoyed that I would dare to say I'm the nobleman and you're my servant?”

“I don't give a shit what you said about me,” Flint snapped. “But pretending to be aristocracy? In _these_ clothes? Fucking insane.”

Silver merely smirked. “It worked, though.”

Something about the way Silver was looking at him, the smug glitter in his eyes, the quirk of his lip, made Flint's mouth go dry. He put it down to lack of water, and quickly poured himself a cup.

“And how, exactly, do you propose to do that?” he asked, wiping his mouth after draining his cup.

“We should get your wound cleaned, for starters.”

“What's it to you whether or not I take care of my wound?”

“Uh, let me think. There are millions in gold on that beach, and nobody knows about it yet. You're intent on getting it to Nassau, I'm intent on getting my share of it, and I don't really think I can get it without your help. Also, I doubt that I could easily leave this place without your help, especially since I fully intend to get us a boat later on and need someone who can sail it.” He finally stopped to take another bite of food. “So. Would you like me to help you remove that shirt?”

Flint blinked, flummoxed by the sheer speed of Silver's argumentation. It took a few seconds to realise that Silver had asked him a question.

“Fine. Help me get this goddamn thing off.”

Silver finished his bread and sausage in one big bite, then helped Flint manoeuvre out of his shirt. But even once the shirt was finally off, Silver didn't back away. He stood there before Flint, inches away from him, lips parted and eyes rather dark, his brow slightly furrowed as he looked Flint over.

“What?” Flint snapped, intensely aware of the droplets of sweat rolling off his own skin.

“The front of the wound looks all right,” Silver said. “I mean it's an ugly wound, as they usually are where the bullet comes out, but it doesn't look inflamed. The back...” He moved behind Flint, who twisted his head, straining to to keep track of him. “Hmm. Looks all right too.” Flint felt Silver sniff at him and it took all of Flint's willpower not to squirm away. Goosebumps blossomed all across his back and chest.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“When wounds go bad, they smell revolting,” Silver said, his voice low, his breath tickling Flint's back. “Yours doesn't.”

Flint gritted his teeth, fighting himself not to move away. Silver was actually showing some modicum of competence after all, and Flint couldn't properly reach the wound on his back in any case. He needed him, even though the idea of being so close to Silver filled him with an uneasy tension that he barely comprehended.

“Just clean it up, will you?”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Flint could actually hear the smirk in Silver's voice.

Before long, Silver was pouring water along the back of Flint's shoulder. It pooled inside the wound now, instead of dripping through like it had done only a few days previously. Flint supposed it meant the wound was closing from the inside.

“All right, lean back,” Silver said, his fingers feathering over Flint's other shoulder, encouraging him with the lightest pressure to follow his directions. Flint complied with an irritated sigh, feeling the dribble of water down his back. Silver mopped it away diligently.

“You missed your calling,” Flint grumbled. “Should've said you were a doctor, not a cook.”

“And have to chop people's limbs off?” Silver asked. “I don't think so, Captain. Besides, I _can_ cook.”

“Boiling water and throwing in random ingredients doesn't qualify as coo– FUCK!”

Flint had been bracing himself for what was coming ever since Silver had uncorked the bottle and the pungent fumes of turpentine had filled the room. What he hadn't expected was that Silver would pour it all over the fucking wound without a warning.

“I take it back, you're as shit a doctor as you are a cook!”

Somehow, Flint managed not to collapse from the burning pain that flooded his shoulder, and tended to the wound on his chest himself. Silver watched throughout, pointing out spots Flint might have missed, all the while eating and drinking his fill.

“Don't you _ever_ shut up?” Flint groaned when he was finished, snatching the bottle of rum from the platter and taking a long swig. “We've been travelling for a week and you haven't shut your mouth for more than five minutes in a row.”

“Now that's a bit of an exaggeration. I'm sure I spent more than five minutes in a row sleeping.”

“Yes, but you talk in your sleep.” Flint grabbed the rest of the bread and sausage and plopped himself down onto the bed. God, he could do with some sleep. That and a long cool bath to soothe the sunburn.

Flint didn't get his bath, but spent most of the afternoon dozing, only mildly aware of Silver sat in the armchair, chattering away, noisily eating an orange. The innkeeper brought them an evening meal at some point. Shortly after eating, Flint irresistibly fell into a dark and heavy sleep.

He awoke disoriented, a hand on the hilt of his cutlass. The morning light outside was already bright, the air cool. There was a pile of clean linens on the armchair, and Flint couldn't recall when they'd been brought in. The room was otherwise empty.

The cowardly little shit had fled, Flint thought. He'd fled, leaving Flint to deal with the townspeople. Flint reached for the new clothes, finding breeches that would probably fit and a somewhat loose shirt. If he was going to get lynched by a mob, he'd rather not be dressed in rags.

Silently, Flint pushed open the door, only for a flood of chatter to set his teeth on edge. It rose from the room downstairs, and Flint moved to the staircase to find out who Silver was swindling this time.

Silver was negotiating with the man who had given himself important airs the previous day. Flint could only watch in awe as Silver explained, rather pathetically, that he needed to be in Cuba to receive a shipment of gold and spices. There was no time to raise a crew, they needed to leave immediately, while the wind was favourable. And this man could make the voyage possible, if he would only let Silver have a periagua from his fishing fleet.

The man hesitated, and Silver became disgustingly insistent, wheedling, nearly tearful. Flint could tell it was all part of a fine-tuned act, and couldn't help the shiver of savage joy when Silver suddenly held up one of Flint's finer rings. It was brass studded with garnets, but Silver had polished it meticulously all through their evening meal; it had developed a shine that could be mistaken for gold. Silver told the man that it was a family heirloom and that he hated to be parted with it, but that it might serve as a guarantee, a taster of all the gold that would come once Silver returned to pay him properly.

Flint saw the greedy gleam in the man's eye. A golden ring of that size was worth about twice the boat's price – possibly more, if the man mistook the stones for rubies. The man knew, deep down, that the deal was too good to be true. He also knew how cruel it was to part a desperate man from his family's jewellery. He knew all that, and yet he held out his hand to strike the deal.

Silver flashed his terrible grin at the man, flattering him, thanking him profusely as he shook his hand. The man laughed, and promised to have a vessel prepared immediately and supplied with food and water.

“Up at last?” Silver asked when he joined Flint in the room. “I thought I'd have to find creative ways of rousing you, you were sleeping like the dead.”

“Your jabbering downstairs was enough to wake me,” Flint grumbled, but he wasn't sure he'd quite managed to keep the smile off his face. “He might have someone look at that ring before he gets the vessel ready, you know.”

“And pass for a villain in front of the rest of the town for taking advantage of a poor traumatised soul who has already endured such hardship? I don't think so. In any case, I intend to be down in the port within the next few minutes – if you feel up to it, Captain.”

Flint rolled his eyes. “I barely feel up to hearing your voice this early in the morning. Don't you ever give that tongue of yours a rest?”

“Not really.” A grin spread over Silver's face, and his eyes twinkled in the pale light. “See my tongue, Captain, my tongue never fails me, no matter in which way I decide to use it.”

This perhaps wouldn't have sounded quite so suggestive if Silver hadn't subsequently picked up a segment of orange and slipped it between his lips, somehow managing to look innocent and obscene all at once. Flint's mouth was dry all over again. He choked on his own breath, intensely aware of the growing heaviness between his legs.

_Fuck._

They rowed out of St Augustine's bay barely half an hour later. Nobody stopped them, nobody called after them, the guardacostas didn't follow them. As the town and its castle grew more and more distant, Flint saw Silver change. The charming grin he had been sporting all through the last few days dissolved, tiredness pulling at his features, making him look older than his years. Silence, an uncharacteristic silence, fell over the boat as they made their way down the Floridian coast, the wind now filling their small sail. It was as though, after days of hard work, he was finally dropping the charming mask and letting himself rest.

Flint wondered how many more masks there were, and which of Silver's faces was the real one.

They risked passing by the wrecks of the Urca and the Walrus to gauge the situation. The beach was still guarded by the Spanish crew, but the warship had gone. The Walrus' crew was nowhere to be seen. Flint tasted bile at the thought of those bloody traitors. Had they stolen the warship? Flint had given them a battle plan, after all. If they'd got to Nassau, everyone would know the whereabouts of the wreck by now. However much gold they managed to collect would be squandered on whores and rum.

“Unlikely,” Silver pointed out. “If that were the case, they'd be back here already, massacring the Spanish crew. Like as not, the crew had to go out into the wilderness like we did.”

It was strange, how the sound of Silver's voice – despite its know-it-all tone – now had an appeasing effect on Flint's churning rage. But he still took up the oars and rowed hard, pushing the small craft on as fast as he could through the calm waters, ignoring the howl of his wounded flesh.

About two days after leaving St Augustine, they landed on a secluded beach close to Nassau. Flint could barely believe it. He had nothing to call his own – no ship, no crew, no gold – but he was alive. Suddenly, as he set foot on the sand, he balked at the hurdles ahead. Telling Eleanor. Making up with Miranda. Trying to get the gold when time – and possibly the Spanish armada – was against him.

“What now?” asked Silver.

“Get to Nassau. We need to find out if Dufresne got back with the warship and if anyone's going after the gold.”

“And how well Miss Guthrie has managed to keep the, ah, situation under control, considering your absence?” Flint raised his eyebrows at Silver. “I'm not just a pretty face, you know. Alliances and power plays are things that I notice.”

Flint said nothing, but gave a nod. In another world, in another situation, he could see how useful an ally this man could be. If, of course, he hadn't entirely been out for his own gain.

“And where will you be, in the meantime?” Silver asked. “In case Miss Guthrie wants to know.”

“Don't talk to Miss Guthrie. I want to know what the situation is before I make a move.”

Silver frowned a little, something akin to annoyance in his eyes. “Fine. Where shall we meet?”

“Here, at sundown. That should give you enough time to gather information.”

“I suppose so, if I don't get lynched.” Silver grinned broadly. The mask was firmly back in place, apparently. “What a man wouldn't do for a share of gold.”

“There are other ways of earning money. And it seems you're rather good at surviving without any money at all.”

Silver chuckled; Flint willed himself to ignore how charming it sounded. He also willed himself to ignore the way the sun glinted off Silver's golden throat, the messy curl of his dark hair, the mischief in his eyes. In another world, in another situation…

“You could go to Nassau, find another crew to bring you to the gold. You could even take the periagua and sail somewhere else, somewhere nobody knows your scams yet.”

“I could.”

“Do you intend to?”

Silver smiled. “I think I'd rather work with you than against you, Captain. I have the feeling that if I didn't, the last thing I would remember on this earth is your face and the feel of your dagger.”

Flint smirked back in return. “You're not wrong.”

For a moment they stood there under the beating sun, watching each other. It was stupid, Flint thought. Silver had shown him precisely what sort of cons he was capable of. He'd also stated time and again that he didn't care about anything else but the gold.

And yet Flint watched him turn and leave for Nassau, trusting him to play spy for him and return with information.

Perhaps he was tired of it all. Perhaps he didn't have it in him to fight any longer. Perhaps putting his fate in the hands of a thief was his way of giving up. After all, his chances of success were looking slimmer by the minute, even if Silver proved to be loyal.

Perhaps he should take the bloody pardon, and make a new life in Boston. That hinged on Miranda pardoning him first, though, and he didn't like his chances of achieving that, either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the fic earns its Explicit tag - heads up for m/f sex involving Flint.

The house howled with silence.

Miranda had spent much time alone, sometimes for many months, but never had it felt like this. Never had it been as still, like the calm before the storm, like the eerie quiet before walls crumbled and everything collapsed and engulfed her.

Eleanor Guthrie had visited the previous day. She had curtly driven home a fact that Miranda had been doing her best to ignore: that there had been no sign of James or of the Walrus in over two weeks. That in all likelihood James had failed. That he may well be dead. And that all of his, in Miss Guthrie's opinion, was Miranda's fault. Her alliance with Richard Guthrie, her letter meant for Boston, whatever she had done to make James lose hope after he had confronted her – Miss Guthrie listed all these things as damning evidence.

Miranda shouldn't have shouted. She shouldn't have taken it to heart. Miss Guthrie was clearly upset, drowning amidst her own difficulties, hurting over the fact that greatest hope for success appeared to be dashed. And yet Miranda's throat was still raw from the harsh words she'd hurled at Miss Guthrie to make her leave her house.

Now she sat alone, staring blankly at stew bubbling on the fire. Her hands were raw after spending hours cleaning every corner of the house in the hope that mindless work would quieten the sharp voice in her head, the one that insisted that Miss Guthrie was right. Not right about it being Miranda's fault, but right about James being dead. Right about James having lost hope.

She should know better. Any venture on a ship could lead to a variety of delays. Perhaps he'd got pushed off course by the storm that had raged through the area. Perhaps they'd got the gold, and had trouble transporting it. Perhaps the wind wasn't favourable and made his return difficult. Perhaps he'd heard Charles Vane had taken the fort, and was biding his time away from Nassau.

There were a thousand reasons to explain why he hadn't returned. But something in Miranda's gut – and apparently also in Miss Guthrie's – told her that that something terrible had happened. It was all Miranda could do not to scream every time the thought crossed her mind.

The front door opened.

Miranda was half-standing, a poker in her hand, by the time James stepped in, sunburned and sweaty, wearing someone else's clothes. He stared at her in silence before his gaze slipped down to the ground. He looked for all the world like a child expecting to be scolded.

The poker clattered to the floor and something broke. Miranda could feel her face twist, her throat tighten in a vice, her body contort as she fought back a sob. She didn't know whether she wanted to kiss him or kill him.

She swallowed down against the barrage of feelings that clamoured to have their voices heard and stalked towards him. “I was told you were dead,” she informed him, her voice level and cold.

He grimaced, uneasy. somehow this only made her more angry.

“I was told it was my fault.”

James glanced up sharply. “What?”

She stopped before him, arms tightly crossed over her aching chest. “According to Miss Guthrie, I betrayed you with my letter, then destroyed you when you confronted me.”

His mouth opened, closed again, and then he shook his head. “Miranda, I'm sorry–”

“And then I waited here, wondering if there was any truth to what she told me.”

“No.” He stepped closer, too close. She wanted to cling to her icy anger, but the heat of him would melt her. She didn't move away. “What happened to me was my own doing.” He closed his eyes and heaved a great, exhausted sigh. God, they were both exhausted.

“I know.” She paused, letting the silence bring her words home to him. “I take it you don't have the gold?”

He shook his head. “Neither do I have a ship, or a crew.”

Good.

That was the first thought that went through her mind. Good. He was alive, and safe, and had no means to continue this endless, hopeless battle. Except that she knew James, knew his stubbornness, knew his unquenchable thirst for revenge, knew how he was too broken to do anything but continue.

“What are your plans now?”

He shrugged. “I sent someone to Nassau, to find out where things stand. Then– we'll see.” He took a deep breath. “I don't know what's next.”

The broken tone of his voice was too much for her to bear. Slowly, carefully, she drew him into her arms. The press of his body against hers shattered her from within, bringing tears to her eyes. Her fingers curled in his shirt, in his hair. He buried his face into her shoulder, and wept.

They clung to each other, grief and despair and relief crashing over them in waves, racking their bodies with great cleansing sobs. Miranda couldn't remember the last time James had admitted defeat and simply let himself grieve. Perhaps this was the first time. Perhaps he needed this defeat.

“James,” she said at last, cradling his face between her hands, looking into the endless depth of his eyes. They were soft, vulnerable. How she loved those eyes. “James, I cannot carry on like this.” Her voice faltered, but she was resolved to say it.

He took a shaky breath. “What do you mean?”

“I cannot bear it anymore, this life, these four walls, wondering if you'll return every time you leave. How do you think I will survive here if you die at sea?”

“There's always–”

“No. There's nothing without you.” She squeezed his chin tight between her fingers, pressing her forehead to his, staring straight into his eyes. “I forbid you to do this on your own any longer. I promised Thomas that I would protect you.”

“Miranda–”

She kissed him, savagely, all teeth, swallowing his breath, tugging at his hair. His lips were rough and cracked, she tasted blood on her tongue but only squeezed him tighter against her. His fingers dug into her spine, his body moulding to hers, trembling and frail and strong and bold all at once. She kissed him long and hard, for all the times she regretted not having kissed him before he left.

“No,” she said, when their lips parted. She looked into his eyes. They had turned dark and feverish. “You will do this for me, James. Where you go, I go – or it is the end of us.”

He stared at her, stricken, aghast. Blood beaded on his cracked lip. “You would sail with me.”

The thought of sailing with him terrified her. The alternative terrified her more.

“If you choose to continue on your quest, I would sail with you.” He opened his mouth and she silenced him by pressing a hand to his chest. “ _Don't_ tell me a ship is no place for a woman. Everyone knows about Anne Bonny.”

“Jesus Christ.” He laughed, a hollow sound of defeat.

She knew then that she had won, and drew him down to her lips, kissing the blood from him, melting into the warmth of his body. He drew her closer, arms wrapping around her waist, fingers rubbing at the nape of her neck. How she'd missed him. Since he'd started hunting the Spanish gold, he'd been less and less James every day, devoured by his pirate persona. What else could she do but stay beside him, if only to remind him who he truly was.

“You gonna want to learn to fight with two swords?” he asked, backing her towards the dining room table.

“I'm quite sure I can handle two swords.”

James chuckled at first, but his face soon took on that stricken expression that always followed any reference to Thomas, however indirect. Miranda leaned in and kissed him hotly before he let himself be submerged in grief again, purposely digging her fingers into his sunburnt neck. He hissed into her mouth, bucking up against her, growing hard against her belly.

Soon she was laid on the dining table, skirts drawn up around her waist, legs squeezing his hips as he rutted against her. His lips scorched their way along her throat; his fingers slid between her thighs, teasing at first, then purposeful. She let herself revel in the sensation, in the way molten heat pooled inside of her, slicked his fingers, made his touch all the more exquisite.

She was quivering on the edge by the time she managed to open his breeches. He was heavy in her palm, and she squeezed him tight.

“Promise me,” she said, as he moved forward to enter her. He looked up at her, blinking in confusion. “Promise that we do this together, or not at all.”

He took a shuddering gasp, cock pressed tantalisingly at her opening. “I do,” he rumbled. “I promise.”

They kissed again, all devouring teeth as he pushed inside her, as she clung to him with all her limbs, allowing her mind to go blank and be filled only with the sensation, the scent, the sound of him.

Pleasure came easily to Miranda. The first climax was a shuddering explosion, moments after he slid inside. The next came in many waves, some small, some great, brought on by his mouth on her breasts, his deft hands on her skin, and the slide and thrust of his cock within her while she touched herself wantonly.

When the haze of lust began to dissipate, a realisation dawned on Miranda: James hadn't stopped.

Usually, James lost interest after a while. If pleasure was easy to achieve for Miranda, a comfort in her loneliness, spending himself had become nigh on impossible for James. It had started with the announcement of Thomas' death, and worsened every year since. Being Flint, Lord Alfred, the Urca gold, all of the things that haunted James' mind had all but quashed his ability to feel pleasure.

Yet now he went on, despite his wound and his exhaustion. He thrust hard and fast, breath short, braced on one arm. This wasn't about satisfying her anymore. He gasped when she dug into his arse with her nails, bucking up to meet her, his body thrumming with tension. She slid a finger in the cleft of his arse, pressing hard right behind his balls; she could have sworn he grunted an encouraging “yes”.

He found no joy. His face was flushed, his teeth bared in concentration, and he was at war again. At war with his own body that denied him completion.

“Well,” James finally mumbled against her throat, as his movements stilled. “That's not gonna happen.”

“Would you like to try on your own?” she asked, already knowing what the answer would be. Alone or with her, the result was the same. She had suggested he try with someone else and he had glared daggers at her.

“No.” He let out a long sigh, pressing his forehead to her collarbone. “I'd rather lie down for a bit.”

Before she let him get into bed, Miranda removed his shirt and breeches, intent on cleaning him up. The sight of the gunshot wound on the front of his shoulder made her stomach churn, but it looked as though it was healing. He sat silently on the edge of the bed as she wiped over his scorched and cut skin with a wet rag. He was still half-hard and flushed, but his mind was elsewhere, his gaze unfocused and lost.

She watched him doze naked on the white sheets, laying beside him fully clothed in the stifling afternoon heat. He was alive and well enough, considering the circumstances. Yet again he'd been lucky and had avoided a rotting wound. What more could she expect, really?

He was different, too. New, somehow, now that he had supposedly lost his means to a war.

When James' eyes finally fluttered open to stare at the ceiling, Miranda ran her fingers along the curve of his shoulder. He looked down at her.

“You want to know what happened?”

“How very perceptive of you,” she said, placing her cheek on his arm.

James sighed. “Gates betrayed me. He wrote a letter accusing me of… well, of everything he knew about. Putting the crew at risk so I could fulfil my personal vengeance. Lying to them and killing Singleton because that fucking thief stole the page with the schedule. Killing the bosun…”

“So you did kill him?”

“I dropped him into the sea.”

“On purpose?”

He was silent for a long time. “We'd been arguing over your letter, and then he fell, and I caught him and… I'm not sure. I'm not sure whether I let go of him because he was too heavy, or because he slipped, or because it was convenient.”

“Did you say that to Mr Gates?” She already knew the answer. James believed telling his crew anything would be giving them an opportunity to exploit a weakness. She'd always disagreed, especially when it came to Mr Gates, who had worked with James from his first days as a pirate in Nassau. As far as she could tell, he'd been James' only friend.

“No. And he loved Billy like a son, so you can imagine how he felt about me.” James swallowed hard, eyes glistening. “Gates betrayed me but he wanted–” He laughed sadly. “He wanted me to take the pardon and go to Boston with you. I just… I snapped. I killed him.”

Miranda pressed her lips together, chilled to the bone. Was this what James had become? What had they done, what had _she_ done, by creating the monster that was Flint? She was glad for the tears on James' face, glad for the way his hand gripped hers when she slid her fingers into his palm. He was still James, but she couldn't allow him to get lost in his own fury.

“The thief who stole the schedule – Mr Silver – tried to help me cover up his death, but the jumped up shit of a new quartermaster already had Gates' testimony and deposed me just as I meant to go into battle with a Spanish warship.”

“A _warship_?”

“Yeah. 124 guns, a bit like our first rate ships of the line.”

“James!”

“I was sure they were escorting the Urca. We could have got them, with the right strategy.”

“And I could still throttle you for being an idiot,” she growled into his arm. “I suppose this is why you don't have a ship anymore?”

“I was giving battle orders when the quartermaster shot me in the shoulder. Then Mr Silver set off a canon, and they were forced to fight. But it was hopeless. I was thrown overboard by a blast at some point and I… I gave up.” Miranda looked up at him with a frown. He stared at the ceiling. “I let myself sink. Then I woke up on the beach with that fucking thief sat next to me.”

Miranda quickly hid away the fact that James had apparently wanted to let himself die into a corner of her mind. She would dwell upon that later. Instead, she focused on the thief, noting that he had been mentioned three times already, that for some reason he had apparently _helped_ James three times already.

“Was it the thief who got you out?”

“He claims he did. The rest of the crew wanted me dead, and they wanted him dead too, so I suppose he saw me as a means of survival. We wrecked on a beach in Florida, and so did the Urca, not far from us. We were so close, Miranda. The gold was within our reach – it still is.”

They were always so close. It seemed to be their curse, to have the end in their sights, only for it to be dashed, over and over, like some great joke devised by cruel gods.

“To redeem myself to the crew, I suggested that I would help them steal the warship. I wanted to go in first with someone strong, to get make way for the others. But the fucking thief volunteered instead.”

“I take it he's not strong.”

“He can't hold his own in a fight, at any rate. But then I found that I couldn't even hold my own against the sea, because of this bloody wound. And so somehow I let Silver convince me to walk two hundred miles through the wilderness to St Augustine.”

“To a Spanish colony. Really?”

James snorted and rolled his eyes. “He speaks Spanish fairly well and managed to pass himself off as… Christ, this sounds so preposterous. He said he was from the House of Silva, and actually got them to believe it.”

Miranda could see the smile curling James' lip, even as he scoffed at the absurdity of this thief's plan. Apparently, he liked him.

“Then Silver conned a townsman out of a boat, and we finally got here this morning.”

“And where is he now, this thief of yours?”

“In Nassau. Either spying for me to see what the situation is, or finding someone else to help him retrieve the treasure. Honestly the more I talk about him, the more I think it'll be the latter. There's no reason for him to be loyal to me.”

There was a strange serenity to James' tone, as though the thief's betrayal and the loss of the treasure wouldn't be devastating for him. Miranda raised her eyebrows pointedly.

“He was always out for himself, so it would come as no surprise. And I'm exhausted, Miranda. If my last ally decides to stab me in the back, then so be it. I'm done.”

Miranda wished this were true, but the fact that he still had some hope of fetching the treasure said otherwise. But he was closer. Perhaps, with the right words, he would be amenable to bringing this endeavour to an end, and not be a broken man for it.

“You should rest, my love.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Your mind will be clearer after some sleep.”

“I have to be back in Nassau in a few hours, in case Silver shows up. And then, well… if you don't mind I'd rather like to bring him back here.”

She couldn't help but smirk. “First a corrupt gentleman, and now a thief?”

James made a face. “I know you didn't like having Richard Guthrie here…”

“Hmm, but had Richard Guthrie saved your life half a dozen times in the span of a week?”

“I wouldn't say Silver saved my _life_.”

“That's how it sounded in your story. Wouldn't you have been executed by your crew, or been taken prisoner by the Spanish in St Augustine without his help? Wouldn't you have drowned?”

“If he hadn't fucked me over in the first place, I might not have had a mutiny on my hands.”

“If you say so, dear.” James glowered at her and she smiled up at him. They both knew that James had been a hair's breadth away from a mutiny for months now, ever since he'd become obsessed with the Spanish treasure galleon.

“You didn't answer my question.”

“If this Mr Silver shows up and agrees to help you, I would be rather curious to meet him. I'd even be happy to help you cultivate an alliance with him, if you'll let me. And after all, if we're to sail together, I suppose he will be our companion.”

James turned over onto his side with a put-upon grunt. “Bloody hell. Isn't that something to look forward to.”

Miranda found that she actually did look forward to meeting the man who had kept James alive and brought him home to her, apparently only using his wits and charm. And a man who, despite his grumbling and distrust, James seemed to rather like.

xxx

When Flint arrived at the beach, the sea was glittering like molten gold in the setting sun. Silver was nowhere in sight. Flint had suspected it, but he couldn't help the pang of frustration and disappointment in his chest. There had still been hope, unrealistic as it was, that for once things would go his way.

He investigated the shore and found the periagua where they'd hidden it, which meant that Silver was likely still in Nassau. He turned towards the town, gazing at the fort turning golden. This was probably the only gold it would ever see, the fool's gold of sunsets.

A strange calm had taken over Flint. Where he had boiled with rage and twitched with murderous impulses, he now just felt empty and exhausted. Perhaps Miranda was right. Perhaps he had been losing himself on his war, and losing her in the process. Perhaps it was time to try something new.

The sound of twigs snapping and leaves rustling sent Flint's hand to the hilt of his cutlass. He realised, only in this moment, that if Silver had betrayed him, a whole mob could be coming to greet him. Fuck, he was becoming sloppy.

As Flint was considering whether he could get away with the periagua if he found himself outnumbered, Silver emerged from the trees that lined the beach. He quirked his lips at Flint as he approached. Eleanor followed him, scowling, flanked by a pair of bodyguards. She planted herself before Flint, her eyes sharper than blades.

“Could've come to see me yourself,” she drawled, “considering how much of my investment sank with your fucking ship.”

Flint glared at Silver, who just gave a smile and a shrug. There were worse betrayals, Flint supposed, than his going to Eleanor.

“Is it true? Did you actually go to St Augustine?” she asked.

“Yeah. It was the best we could think of, under the circumstances.”

“And you really killed Gates? Dufresne took over?”

Flint heaved a great sigh. Every time someone brought up this story, it cut a little deeper into him. And he knew it would be long before he heard the end of it.

“Yeah. Is he back in Nassau?”

“No. None of the Walrus crew showed up.”

The relief was nearly dizzying. “Then we can go back to Florida, get the gold. All we need is to find a ship and raise a crew.”

Eleanor grimaced. “There's a problem. Vane took the fort while you were away and strong-armed me into letting him into the consortium.”

“Oh for fuck's sake…” Vane. Always Vane. Flint swore to himself that one day he'd get rid of that fucking thorn in his fucking side. “So we can take the gold, but we'll have nowhere safe to store it?”

“The fort _is_ safe.”

“Not if Vane is in it! What kind of men does he have now? Are they any better than his previous crew?”

Eleanor frowned. “I can talk to him, sort something out.”

Flint couldn't help but roll his eyes. “We all know what you're like where Vane is concerned.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“Captain, there's something else,” Silver interrupted. “They found Billy on the beach.”

“Billy?” This had to be a joke. Or perhaps he was dreaming? Perhaps the whole Walrus crew would suddenly show up in a warship and blast them to smithereens, too. So much for things ever going his way.

“That's all we needed,” Eleanor grumbled.

“Well, what is he saying?” Flint asked.

“Nothing as of yet,” Silver said. “He's feverish, starved and exhausted. But when he wakes up… well, maybe it would be in our interest if he wasn't in the middle of the beach telling everyone that his Captain pushed him overboard.”

“He fell.” Flint took a deep breath, then turned to Eleanor. “Can you find a place for him, keep an eye on him until he wakes up?”

“People will talk, you know, it's fucking hard enough as it is keeping everyone in line without people saying that I've kidnapped Billy Bones.” She glared up at him, mouth a hard line. “But fine. I'll do it.”

He nodded. “And we'll have to find a way to get the gold, even if we don't have a place to store it. It's a matter of days before the someone finds it – whether pirates or its consort.”

“D'you think the warship left to go and get help?” Silver asked.

“And risk leaving the gold unguarded? They'd have more likely sent a small vessel to Cuba or St Augustine if they wanted help.”

“So you still think the Walrus crew took the warship, but haven't returned yet?”

Flint shrugged. “Could be? There were only thirty or so of them, a skeleton crew for a ship that size.”

“So a fucking warship could sail into the bay at any moment?” Eleanor snorted. “I'd like to see what Charles would make of that.”

And if Flint had stolen the bloody thing, he'd have had to fight Vane to enter the bay, and choose between capitulating or destroying the fort. It was a small mercy that he wouldn't have to make that choice.

“I'll be with Mrs Barlow if you need me,” he told Eleanor.

“You taking the thief with you?”

“I have a name, you know,” Silver said mildly.

She glared at Silver pointedly. “Only I'd rather he were far from Nassau, in case he decides things aren't going fast enough for him.”

“Yeah, I'll take him with me.”

“And maybe it's best you don't show your face in town until we've figured something out with Charles or found you a crew. I'll make enquiries and send you messages to keep you apprised of the situation.”

“Thank you.” The words came out unbidden, in a rush of relieved breath.

Eleanor rolled her eyes, then abruptly pulled Flint closer, squeezing him tight. “I'm glad you're back,” she murmured against his shoulder. Then she released him, eyes stony as ever. “Mess this up again, and I'll fucking gut you.”

Flint couldn't help but laugh a little. Even as he led Silver through the wilderness between Nassau and Miranda's house, he felt lighter. He had an ally in Eleanor, and there was still a chance, however remote, that they could still succeed. Just for that, Flint didn't bring up the fact that Silver, once again, had done things entirely his way.


	3. Chapter 3

After hearing James' description of Mr Silver and his antics, there were a number of things Miranda had expected to see when she finally met him. She'd expected the clever eyes and the cheeky smile. She'd expected the pleasant way words tripped off his tongue when he introduced himself and thanked her for her hospitality. She'd expected that Mr Silver would do his best to ingratiate himself to her, after having done the same to the inhabitants of St Augustine. Miranda was familiar with that sort of character.

What James hadn't mentioned was that John Silver was nothing like most of his rough sea-weathered crew. He hadn't mentioned the clipped, hard-to-place accent, or the angelic curls, or the way Silver's features shifted from quite ordinary to very pleasing, depending on the expression on his face. James certainly hadn't mentioned the young man's lean frame, his narrow hips and broad shoulders, the smoothness of his golden skin. Miranda wondered if James still noticed these things in a man; she certainly hoped so for his sake.

Another thing James hadn't mentioned, probably hadn't even predicted, was the sharp look in this man's eyes, the slight scowl that had crept onto his face when James had introduced Miranda, until he covered it up with a bright grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. That was the frightened uncertainty of a man who trusted nobody. Or perhaps Miranda was thwarting some mysterious plan of Silver's by her mere existence.

“So, Mr Silver,” Miranda said once both James and Silver were settled at the dinner table with a plateful of stew, “James told me that you travelled with him to St Augustine. I would very much like to hear that tale.”

A playful glitter lit Silver's eyes, as though finally he felt at ease. “Ah, Mrs Barlow, it was quite the epic journey.”

“Oh god,” James groaned, making a great show of rolling his eyes.

“Well, it was,” Silver told him, chuckling. Then he turned his attention fully to Miranda. “We set off with nothing but the clothes on our backs, and I can't say that the Floridian wilds were terribly hospitable. The forest is incredibly dense, and have these palm trees with very sharp leaves. We saw creatures so bizarre that I can barely explain them – a sort of rat the size of a cat, and squirrels that fly from tree to tree. And we met natives, twice.”

There was something about the way John Silver told a story. His voice flowed like a river, both soothing and entrancing.

“What sort of tribes were they?” she asked.

“The Tequesta first, then the Ais further north. The Captain thought they'd be hostile, but we chanced it and said we were Spanish, since they have an alliance with the people of St Augustine. Thankfully they believed us and helped us on our way.”

“Bloody lucky really, I hear their poison arrows bring about a particularly painful death,” James spat.

“Clever, not lucky, Captain,” Silver said, beaming at him in a way that made James' lip curl. Then he turned back to Miranda. “The natives even let us know which plants we could eat, and which paths to avoid. We mostly ate sea lemons, but they weren't exactly in season. You have no idea how nice it is to eat proper food, after a diet of water and sea lemons.” He chuckled, taking another bite of food. Like James, Silver did seem a little hollow around the cheeks. “Anyhow, as we approached St Augustine, the Captain didn't believe that I could convince them that we were Spanish.”

“I should say the Captain doesn't exactly have a Mediterranean complexion,” Miranda said, smirking when James glowered at her.

“Well, I came up with the idea of passing myself off as nobility. I believed it would take the people a little longer to start questioning us if they thought they were talking to someone from house De Silva. It paid off.”

“And the Captain? How did you account for his presence?” Miranda asked. She could tell, from the tension in James' shoulders and jaw, that he intensely disliked this part of the story, which only made her more curious.

“Oh, I said he was Seamus, my Irish bodyguard,” Silver said with a huge, bright grin.

It was all Miranda could do not to burst out laughing. James was glaring daggers at them both, daring her to laugh. “I see,” she said, suppressing a quiver in her voice.

“Well I couldn't very well say he was an Englishman called James, could I?”

“About that.” James leaned towards Silver, rather threateningly. Silver didn't even shift in his seat. “How _did_ you know my name was James?”

Silver chuckled. “I'm not sure you'll like the truth, Captain.”

“I don't like most things that come out of your mouth anyway,” James growled. That rumble of danger in James' voice never failed to send the most delicious chills through Miranda. Were Silver's eyes so dark for the very same reason?

“Well, in that case… I wasn't sure what this precious page was, and why you needed it. So I let myself into your cabin to investigate. While I was searching, I found your log book, and saw the name 'James Flint'.”

“Of course you did.” There was thunder in his voice, but James showed surprisingly few signs of losing his temper. Miranda wondered if Silver knew how indulgent James was being with him. From the way he watched James shamelessly, a small smirk curling his lip, Miranda suspected that he did.

“Anyhow,” Silver said, breaking the subtle tension that had been building between him and James. “The townspeople were rather impressed with Seamus and the terrible wounds he sustained to protect me.”

James snorted and aggressively munched on his stew.

“And this,” continued Silver, “is how they ended up giving us food, water, new clothes and a bed to sleep in. I think the Captain needed the rest to be honest. I've never seen such a sound sleeper.”

“Tell her about your ring scam,” James told him, pouring himself a cup of rum.

“Oh, it's quite a well-known trick. The Captain had lent me his rings so that I could look the part of the nobleman, and one of them was heavy brass. I polished it to a nice shine and offered it as compensation to a man who was reluctant to lend us a boat.”

“He's leaving out the part where he was practically grovelling, and then said the ring was an heirloom.”

“Well yes. Most people out there are looking to take advantage of someone in trouble. The man thought I was offering him a gold ring for his rather rickety boat.”

“Still can't believe he fell for it,” James muttered.

Miranda smiled at Silver, and he smiled back at her, relaxing slightly in his seat. She was starting to understand the affinity between James and this man. Cunning, manipulation, strategy – James prided himself on them. The only reason he wasn't able to pull off cons such as Silver's was simply that he lacked the kind of charm and eloquence that put people at ease. Miranda suspected it was why James had never been able to get a good handle on his crew.

“You must be exhausted Mr Silver,” Miranda said at last. “I'll make sure your room is ready.”

Silver approached his new bedroom with caution, as though Miranda intended to imprison him inside the moment he stepped across the threshold. He gave her a tense smile, eyes darting all around him. The room was plain enough, and the window probably too small to fit him, were he to try and escape that way. Miranda imagined that the thought had crossed Silver's mind. Clearly, this was someone who expected to have to run at the first occasion.

Miranda wondered why he hadn't run from James when he had the chance. Surely, he must have been aware of how dangerous James could be – especially since he had seen poor Mr Gates' fate with his own eyes. But even back in the relative safety of Nassau, he hadn't chosen to sell the information he had, or to disappear. He'd come back to James. Miranda had a strong suspicion that Silver _enjoyed_ being James' partner.

* * *

James slept so heavily that Miranda could barely get him out of bed the next day. It took quite a lot of rapping at Silver's door to rouse him, too. A while late, James and Silver sat side by side at the table, breaking their fast on corn cakes, dishevelled, looking more dead than alive.

Perhaps it was just exhaustion making him more tolerant, but James seemed perfectly at ease with Silver sitting so close beside him. He wordlessly passed him the butter after helping himself, and generally seemed at peace sitting there beside this supposedly conniving, self-serving thief who would stab him in the back at any moment. Never would she have expected to have a stranger in her house who didn't cause James to become all tense and full of his usual bluster.

And since Miranda was sitting at a distance, juicing oranges, Silver didn't seem to be under any pressure to be genial and over-friendly. He looked much more handsome when he wasn't playing at being charming, in Miranda's opinion, with his features relaxed, his thoughts turned inwards.

“Here, lest you catch scurvy,” Miranda said, placing cups of orange juice before them. “James swears by it.”

“Oh, we ate plenty of fruit on our way to Saint Augustine,” Silver said, instantly bright and alert. Miranda briefly wondered what he had been through, to constantly feel the need to make himself agreeable to people. “But thank you. This tastes much more pleasant.”

“You're welcome, Mr Silver.”

“I notice you have a vegetable patch,” Silver said, his tone conversational. “Do you work in the garden yourself?”

“I do,” Miranda replied, noting that James glanced sideways at Silver, suspicion written all over his face. “It's rather satisfying to be able to harvest plants that you tended to.”

“I would imagine it's different from gardening back in England in the rain and fog.”

James' frown deepened, but he said nothing and drank up his orange juice.

“The climate is certainly different, yes, and the plants that would thrive in England don't really do well here.” She smiled at Silver. “But that simply gives me an opportunity to try new things.”

She hadn't quite intended to sound suggestive with that last sentence, but Miranda was rather pleased to see Silver raise an eyebrow at her, a smile just curling the corners of his mouth. He was intrigued.

“Miranda? Would you mind helping me clean up my wound?”

She had somewhat expected James' interruption. Silver glanced at James and schooled his face back into a mild, unreadable expression.

“Please excuse us,” she said to Silver, getting to her feet. She felt his gaze follow her as she gathered a bucket of freshly drawn water, the turpentine and some rags, then proceeded to the bedroom with James. He closed the door behind them, louder than was his habit.

“That was rather rude,” Miranda said, helping James out of his shirt.

“I'd just rather you be careful about what you say to him,” he said, trying not to pull a face when he moved his shoulder.

“I was being careful, if you hadn't noticed.” She inspected the wound closely. There were no signs of a turn for the worse, thankfully. She filled a pitcher with water and poured it down James' back. Even though she had known him for over ten years, there was still something mesmerising about the sight of water flowing off his freckled skin, leaving droplets and goosebumps in its wake.

“I'm just saying that we can't trust him,” James continued. “He's in it for the gold, and for some reason he thinks I'm his best chance at getting it.”

“Yes, for some reason.” She couldn't help but smirk behind James' back. He was still as unaware of his own charm as he had been the day she had met him.

“And now he's trying to know who you are.”

“Is that so terrible?”

He scowled at her as she came to pour water onto the front of his wound. “It could put you in danger.”

“Mr Guthrie knows who I am, and to him my identity actually holds some meaning. He knew Lord Alfred.”

James instantly went rigid with fury. “Richard Guthrie knows? _How_?”

“He saw the portrait. I imagine that he took advantage of my being out of the house to look for clues, much like your little thief.”

“Fuck.” James pressed his lips together tightly, his face twitching. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. He knew Lord Alfred's version of the story.” Simply uttering those words left a bitter taste in her mouth. “I said nothing to confirm nor deny it. He went on to offer his help to get you pardoned and–”

James sighed heavily, pressing his fingers against his eyes. “I see.”

“It felt liberating that someone knew who I was.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide and dark as a haunted sea. There was no anger there anymore, because he knew what she meant. He knew because one of the rare things that brought him some peace was being called James rather than Captain Flint. At home he could be James. But she was the only one to know that part of him, and he was the only one who knew who she was. That thought alone filled her with dread.

“Miss Guthrie, when she visited, made a point of telling me that she knew nothing about me. That I was so _unremarkable_ that you had nothing to tell her about me.” James bared his teeth in a snarl, and Miranda knew it wasn't because of the turpentine that she was dabbing onto his wound. “And I know it isn't true. But James...”

She finished her ministrations and sat on the bed beside him, suddenly slumping under the weight of it all. He pressed close to her, his bare shoulder radiating heat even though her clothing.

“I am tired of being the mysterious witch controlling the undead captain. I am tired of being a ghost. If nobody knows who I am, it feels as though I don't exist at all.”

His eyes went wide and he bared his teeth a little, as though her words physically hurt him. “Miranda…”

“I know that _you_ aren't ready to talk about your past to anyone, and I shall respect that. But I would appreciate it if you did not attempt to control what I can or cannot say about myself and my life, especially under my own roof.”

He huffed, but it was hollow and exhausted. He took her hand in his, toying with her fingers. “Just be careful, and don't get too attached. I doubt he'll hang around for very long.”

“I am careful, James. Of the two of us, may I remind you that I am not the reckless one.”

He looked at her and smirked, his eye twinkling. “Oh, really? Because I recall many a reckless time with you.”

She grinned, the happy memories a balm to her aching heart. “Those were calculated risks.”

The rest of the day was spent rather lazily. Miranda worked in the garden, then enjoyed a long session at the clavichord. James plunged into a book and barely got out of bed all day. Silver took a bucket of water into his bedchamber and returned with damp hair that took all afternoon to dry into tight curls. Miranda wondered who he was trying to impress.

Later, Silver offered to help prepare dinner. As they were shelling peas, he told her a story about how Captain Flint had taught him how to glaze and spit-roast a pig. He was congenial as ever, laughing as he said that James considered him to be an entirely incompetent cook. But now, Miranda knew who Silver was trying to impress.

* * *

The next day brought a letter from Miss Guthrie and a storm to James' face.

“Well? What does she say?” Silver asked, after James had stared at the letter for quite a while. They'd been finishing breakfast when the letter came.

“She says Vane would be prepared to let me operate out of Nassau.”

“Well that's good, isn't it?” Silver said, finishing the last of his cornbread.

“If I give him a quarter of anything I bring in.”

Miranda had seen something like that coming. Silver, on the other hand, nearly choked on his food. “He can't be serious!”

“After all of his crew deserted him to join me, he'll do anything to get back at me.”

“Remind me how that happened, exactly?” Miranda asked.

“Eleanor threatened his crew, said they'd never trade out of Nassau again if they didn't agree to follow me instead of him.”

Silver sighed. “Is there any chance we can negotiate with Vane?”

“She said she'll try to reason with him, whatever that means,” James grumbled. “She also says he might have to leave the fort to ransom some lord whose daughter he holds.”

“Charming,” Miranda couldn't help but comment.

James shrugged. “It could be an occasion to get the fort back.”

“Wouldn't that require a lot of men?” Silver asked.

“Not necessarily. There are tunnels that lead in there, with a bit of help we could–”

“I'm sorry, who's 'we'? Because I'm in this to get gold, Captain, not to get myself killed trying to take a fucking fort.”

James frowned at him, as though he hadn't expected this turn of events. “Very well. I wager I'm not the only one who wants Vane out of there. I'll find other allies.”

“Be that as it may,” Silver continued, “are you sure we shouldn't be focusing on getting the gold back, rather than on Vane? It's much more time-sensitive, isn't it?”

“It'll all be for nothing if we don't have anywhere to keep it safe.”

“Look, it's five million Spanish dollars. Do we really need to bring that much back? Even if we split it amongst a hundred men, you couldn't spend that much money in a lifetime.”

James stared at him, flabbergasted. “It's not for _me_!” he burst out. “It's to protect Nassau, make sure it stays free from British rule. The bulk of the money was meant to protect Nassau!”

Silver looked taken aback for only half a second before he chuckled. “All right. Fine. Who am I to argue with that sort of goal.”

“I'll figure something out for the fort, I won't need your help for that,” James growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Silver was thoughtful for a while, then turned back to James. “So I suppose Miss Guthrie is in on this scheme to make Nassau a free nation, but who else?”

“What?”

“Who else do you have in Nassau, supporting this idea?”

James scowled at him, all teeth and thundering eyes. “What the fuck is it to you, you're only in it for the gold, remember?”

Silver rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. What _do_ you need me for?”

“We need firewood.”

That was not the answer either Silver or Miranda had been expecting to hear.

“Firewood,” Silver repeated flatly.

James stood up and strode to the door. After a few moments of confusion, Silver followed him outside. Miranda got to her feet and watched from the door as they walked into the yard and James showed Silver the shelter in which they kept firewood; the reserves they had could easily have lasted them a full month.

“It looks to me like you have plenty of wood.” Silver didn't seem at all intimidated by the angry blush that had spread all up James' throat and across his face, no more than by his snarling mouth and death glare. In fact, he was standing rather too close to James.

“I'll tell you when I have enough wood, Mr Silver.” James had an axe in his hand. His fingers smoothing over the handle in long, unmistakeable motions were a thing of beauty.

An amused, mischievous expression crossed Silver's face, likely mirroring Miranda's. James might have been clever, he might have been good with words, but he was often oblivious both to innuendo when he didn't expect it and to his own attraction when he didn't want to admit to it.

“All right. Very well,” Silver said in a put-upon tone. “I'll take care of your wood for you.” How he managed to say it with a straight face was beyond Miranda.

“Thank you,” James growled, handing Silver the axe.

“But just so we're clear,” Silver said as he pulled his shirt off. “I know you're just making me do this to see me _hard_ at work, and covered with sweat.”

He was a quite a vision without his shirt on: muscular, tanned, a sheen of sweat already slicking his skin – and flashing James the brightest, cheekiest smile Miranda had seen him give so far. James turned around hastily and stalked back to the house, his cheeks and ears taking on an even deeper shade of scarlet.

“One day I'm gonna kill that little shit, you mark my words,” he growled as he stopped beside Miranda, turning back to look towards Silver again.

“Of course, my dear,” Miranda said, stroking along his arm. It was a delight to see him so worked up, blood boiling not with anger – though he may think otherwise – but with barely repressed lust.

“Asking me questions about my plans, who the fuck does he think he is?”

Miranda noted that James still hadn't taken his eyes off Silver, who had somehow worked out how to cut wood and show off his pert backside at the same time.

“Someone trying to help you, bless his poor soul.”

“Oh, please.” James snorted. “Did you see him back there? Did you see that fucking grin?”

“I did indeed.” It had been something entirely different from the grins he gave her, nervous and exaggerated, a mask for his distrust. The way he smiled at James was genuine and unafraid.

James turned to her, thunder on his face. “And why was he repeating 'wood' all the bloody time?”

“Oh, James.” Miranda couldn't help but grin; her hand wandered to his back, rubbing a circle between his shoulder-blades. “Had it been written in a poem, you would have been the first to decipher that blatant metaphor.”

“What?”

“Or euphemism, if you prefer.”

James shut the door, hiding Silver from view, and pushed himself close against Miranda. “What are you saying?”

“That he was flirting, my dear.”

James' mouth dropped open in surprise and outrage. “He was not!”

“He certainly was. Has nobody from your crew ever expressed interest in you before?” Miranda said, winding her arms around James' middle. He let her, his body strung as taut as a bow, thrumming against her.

“Of course they haven't.”

“No of course not. You're Captain Flint.” She pulled at his shirt to loosen it from his trousers, sliding her hands beneath it. His skin was impossibly hot against her palms. “Who would be so bold as to see you as anything but a terrifying pirate?”

He glared at her, and she gave him a sweet smile, hoping she hadn't gone too far; he didn't like being reminded of his pirate persona when he was home. Miranda ran her hands down his back, soothingly. When he didn't push her away, she pressed closer to him.

“Who would dare see you for the beautiful, fascinating man that you are?” she murmured into his ear, nuzzling the coarse hair at his jaw.

Miranda heard the breathiness in the long sigh he gave, felt him hard against her thigh, and thanked the heavens for Silver and his heavy-handed innuendo.

“Is it so hard to believe that he simply finds you attractive?” She pulled him close by the fabric of his shirt and kissed him. He kissed her back hungrily, with a familiar desperation, a fervour which she had sorely missed lately.

“He's just doing it so I keep him around,” James muttered, his voice thick.

“Is he?”

“You heard him. Only in it for the gold.” James' hands slid beneath her mantua, moving along her stays, playing with the fastenings at her back.

“I'll grant you that he wants the gold.” She traced the line of his lips with hers, lightly pressing kisses on them. “But there are other ways to get it. He's out there chopping wood against his better judgement because he likes you.”

James made a sound she hadn't heard in a long time, a moan so stifled that it barely sounded like more than a grunt. She knew it well, though, this sound of unadmitted want. Miranda kissed him again and got lost in it, lost in the mounting tide of desire, lost in the heat of him, until dizziness overcame her. When they parted at last, breathing hard, she took his hand and led him into their bedroom.

“I don't think there is an ulterior motive to his attraction.” She took her time unpinning her mantua and draped it over a chair. “I think he just sees you the way I did, the first time I clapped eyes on you.”

“I know you're just trying to get me worked up, Miranda.” He was right behind her, breath hot in her ear, palms pressed over the curve of her hips. His fingers moved up along her stays, unlacing them deftly.

She smirked, reaching a hand behind her to cup his growing cock. “It's working rather well, isn't it?”

James' teeth grazed her shoulder, sending a shudder straight between her thighs. As his mouth worked along the back of her neck, he gave up on her stays and gathered up her petticoats instead, bringing the hem up high enough for him to slide his hands between her legs.

The bedroom window was open to let a draught run through the house. Its cheap glass was murky and opaque, but where the window was open, at a certain angle, Miranda could see Silver at the woodpile. His body moved gracefully as he brought the axe down, the sun glinting off his skin.

“He's lovely, isn't he?” Miranda asked as James' fingers teased their way into her folds, making her body pulse and swell in response. Her comment earned her a buck of his hips against her palm. She twisted to glance up at James; he was also looking at Silver, though he moved his lips back to her neck the moment he was caught watching.

“Striking eyes,” she continued. “Good body. Nice arse, too.”

“Christ.” James was breathing heavily against her skin, grinding into her hand. Beneath her skirts, his fingers rubbed a little harder as she rocked against his hand.

“I can definitely picture you fucking him.” His teeth glanced off the shell of her ear, and she gave his cock a hard squeeze, drawing a choked moan from him. It was no lie. The moment she'd seen them together arguing about wood, images of James and Silver fucking had started floating up into her mind. No wonder she was so wet now, under James' fingers.

“Surprised you don't want him for yourself,” he panted, in a voice that was all but undone already.

Miranda chuckled, letting go of his cock to to unfasten her skirts. James shifted his hand to help her remove them, rutting slowly against the back of her thigh. “I certainly wouldn't refuse if he offered.” She tugged the laces out of her stays. “Once you're done with him.”

“I'm not going to do anything with him.” But James' fingers were trembling as he helped her remove her stays. He was feverish, unable to hide how much this notion was working him into a frenzy. It was as though a door had been cracked open, a door of possibility that he had slammed closed after Thomas' death. James wasn't ready yet, but given time…

“Come to bed,” he told her. “He can see us here.”

And it was true. She was standing in her chemise before the window, in full view of Silver. Miranda turned around and pulled off James' shirt, careful not to disturb his shoulder. “So what?” she breathed into his ear.

“So what?” he repeated weakly. He put up no resistance when she unbuttoned his breeches and slid them down his thighs.

“If Mr Silver sees something that offends him, surely he can avert his gaze.” James all but moaned into her mouth when she kissed him, pressing up hard against her. Her fingers curled around his cock and he instantly began rutting into her hand.

“I'd forgotten how fucking brazen you could be,” he said, lifting her chemise, helping her out of it.

And Miranda had forgotten how good it felt to have him there with her, fully present in mind and body, actually taking some joy in the act rather than attempting to fulfil a self-imposed duty. She'd forgotten how good it could be to have him unceremoniously push her against the dressing table and enter her from behind, his teeth grazing at the nape of her neck.

His fingers slid between her legs again, his palm hot against her belly. As James thrust inside her, slow and deep, Miranda couldn't help but wonder if Silver was watching. She glanced through the window to see him quickly turning away with a shake of his head, a bemused smile on his lips.

Thoughts of Silver faded from her mind as James thrust harder, faster, making the table rattle against the wall. His beard grazed her skin, one hand teased her nipple while the other rubbed and pressed against her in all the ways he knew would please her. It wasn't long before Miranda came, and she came hard, moaning aloud, clenching around him over and over. Each wave left her legs trembling a little more, until she could barely stand and her knuckles were white where she gripped the table for support.

“Now will you come to bed?” James said into her ear, his voice not devoid of smugness.

As she let James guide her to their bed, Miranda saw the distracted look on Silver's face while he rather clumsily stacked the wood he'd been cutting. His cheeks and ears were somewhat redder than they had been before. Miranda recalled that she hadn't been exactly quiet when she had come.

“He's definitely not offended by what he can see,” Miranda breathed into James' ear as she sat down on the edge of the bed. This had exactly the intended effect; James bit back a moan and bent to kiss her hotly. Within moments he was back inside her, thrusting hard and fast. Miranda could still see Silver through the window, and noticed the way he half-turned towards them, watching out of the corner of his eye.

“How he must envy me now. Do you think he pictures himself lying beneath you, like I am now?” James' hips hit her hard; she could nearly feel the wobble in his knees. Oh, this was good. She needed him to come undone, to give himself a moment to forget his burdens and just let himself want.

“Miranda,” James ground out, squinting down at her. It sounded like a warning, but from the jerky movements of his hips she knew it was also a plea for her to continue.

“Do you think he wants your cock inside of him?”

James let out a moan and pressed his face into Miranda's shoulder, growing even harder inside of her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Silver look up towards them. Between James' cock and the delicious feeling of being watched, Miranda wasn't far from the edge herself.

“Or he's admiring your arse right now,” she murmured into his ear, squeezing his arse in her hands, encouraging him to thrust hard. “And thinking how much he wants to fuck it.”

That did it. James went rigid against her and let out a quiet, broken sound as he came. She could have cried for joy. Instead, she carded through James' hair as he squeezed her tight, face still buried in the crook of her shoulder, gasping for breath.

Lust still simmered within Miranda, only heightened by the sight of James coming, so she reached between them to touch herself. After a while James began lightly kissing her shoulder, her throat, then her lips, a trembling hand smoothing over her stomach. In the distance, Silver's gaze followed James' movement, then flicked to her. She looked back at him, unabashed.

James withdrew his softening cock from her, replacing it with two fingers, pressing firmly on a spot that made her buck up against him. Miranda's hips rose off the bed as she stroked herself, her hand trapped under his hot palm. Her mind wandered back to James' face when he came, the sound he'd made, the slap of his skin against her and the slide of his cock inside of her. His lips worried her ear, his beard prickled the side of her face and she could feel the hard knot of pleasure tightening within her.

She thought of how she was being watched, knew how revealing this position would be. Silver could see James fuck her with his fingers, could see her body exposed to him, and the thought was dizzying. Looking up between her parted thighs she caught Silver's eye, saw him transfixed with lust in her yard. Then James' mouth closed over her nipple, sucking it nearly obscenely, and pleasure burst and pulsed through her in waves. She made no effort to keep quiet.

They lay a while on the bed afterwards, catching their breath, their hands lying entwined on her belly. The next time Miranda thought to look for him, Silver had disappeared. She shifted to look at James, smiling, but her smile dropped when she saw the twist of his mouth, the sadness in his eyes and the guilt etched in each of his features.

“You're allowed pleasure, you know,” she told him softly. “With me. With others.”

James just heaved a great sigh then turned to his side, away from her, and stared at the wall.

She wanted to remind him that Thomas would have been appalled to see him make himself so miserable out of guilt. She wanted to remind him how lascivious, how bold, how playful her husband had been. How he had always encouraged her to explore her desires, and how he would have done the same for James, given time. She said all this in the past, but it had never helped.

Instead, she pressed kisses along the freckles of James' back, and hoped that perhaps someone else ought to remind James that he was allowed to have a life that wasn't only made up of revenge. Perhaps Silver would prove to be helpful in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I'm not all that good at answering feedback quickly (or, er, at all) but OMG guys it is always SO appreciated! Thank you to each and every one of you who commented, this story is tricky and makes me quite nervous so it's awesome to know when it works for you! <3


	4. Chapter 4

Silver was in deep shit.

This wasn't anything new, he'd been in some measure of shit as far as his memory would stretch. His life had been a succession of shitty situations which had led up to this current shitty situation. At least this one had the promise of gold at the end of it.

He should have known, really, when he started noticing things about Flint. Things like the way his beard glinted like fire in the setting sun. Like the colour of his eyes – sea tones, with one eye slightly greener than the other. Like the patterns of freckles on his chest, and the thickness of his thighs, and his ever-fidgeting fingers, and the heat coming off his skin when they stood close.

These had been mere observations. He and Flint had been thrown together in the midst of danger, and Silver had taken these thoughts as his mind simply trying to escape from a frightening situation, as it was wont to do. Actual interest in other people was a complication that Silver avoided as much as possible; survival became much more difficult when another person became involved in one's life.

Truth be told, sex didn't make it high up on Silver's list of motivations either. Food, money and safety tended to compete for the top spot, and plans to achieve those goals took up most of Silver's thoughts. Sex was usually a means to an end, a way to gain influence or trust or loyalty. Other than that, Silver could live without it. He was no stranger to lust, but it had always simmered in the background. It wasn't practical to let his desires focus on anyone for any length of time. It wasn't safe.

But now he'd seen Flint fuck.

Worse. He'd watched Flint fuck, and been watched in return. All of Silver's instincts had told him to turn away the moment he saw Flint with his hand up his lady's skirts, but the sight had filled Silver with a lust that defied all reason.

Now pictures were etched into Silver's mind, flashing in front of his eyes every time he closed them. Flint making a show of fucking Mrs Barlow against that table, both rough and surprisingly tender. The way they'd both glanced at him before they moved to the bed, as though they wanted him to be watching. Flint's body going rigid as he came. Mrs Barlow staring back at Silver, two of Flint's fingers sliding in and out of her. Her expression when ecstasy swept through her.

That's when Silver had finally fled. He'd barely made it to a secluded corner behind the house before his hand was down his trousers. A few strokes later and he was spurting into his fist. Christ, it had felt glorious – heady and terrifying at once.

It hadn't been the first time that Silver had pleasured himself to thoughts of Flint, but Silver never dwelt on what went through his mind when he snatched a few quiet moments to get some relief. Flint was larger than life, charismatic and intense; Silver had found it unsurprising that he would loom as large in his fantasies as he did in Silver's life.

But that had been before Silver was stuck in a house with Flint, and with a woman who was not only aware that Silver had watched them, but had taken pleasure in it. A woman whose voice, when it turned low and throaty, sent shivers of want through Silver's core. A woman who smiled at him knowingly and whose eyes appeared to see right into him. A woman who might actually succeed in tempting him into doing something incredibly stupid.

Silver stayed away from the house as long as he could without looking suspicious. He finished chopping and storing wood, then explored the small farm. Mrs Barlow's vegetable patch was thriving. The animals seemed healthy and well cared for. Silver struck up a conversation with one of the farmhands; he'd been taken from a slaver by the Walrus' crew. Silver was told that Mrs Barlow treated him and the others well, but Silver was unable to find out whether these were employees or slaves, whether they stayed willingly or were captives.

To his annoyance, Silver was also unable to find out anything else about Mrs Barlow. He saw her moving in the house, dressed in her very proper Puritan garb. The disguise wasn't perfect. She had expensive tastes, from the clavichord to the tea and china, luxuries that a true Puritan would likely have shunned. And she wore a cameo ring on her ring finger, which intrigued Silver to no end. Were she and Flint married? And if not, why was she wearing a ring on that finger?

It was the middle of the afternoon when Flint came out of the house, wearing a long dark tunic over his breeches. Silver had settled uneasily on the porch bench, snoozing, not quite daring to come inside. Mrs Barlow had let him be, but Flint pinned him down with his piercing gaze.

“We're going to Nassau,” Flint said at last, fastening a sword-belt around his waist.

“I take it 'we' means you and I?” Silver said, peeling himself off the bench.

“Well I'm not taking Mrs Barlow down to Nassau.”

“And what are we going to do there?

“See if Billy's recovered, and talk to Miss Guthrie.”

“All right.” Silver watched Flint wrap a long piece of cloth around his head, fashioning it into a turban. He had to remind himself not to stare, nor to think about where those nimble fingers had been earlier that day.

Flint glanced over at him, eyes flicking up and down appraisingly, cool and stony. Silver had been on the receiving end of that look many times already, and he still hadn't completely figured out its meaning. Mostly, he took it as a show of dominance, like an officer's gaze as he looked over his men for flaws. But sometimes, just sometimes, Silver thought that Flint wanted him. That terrible, dangerous thought made Silver's spine tingle.

He'd really pushed it that day with all the innuendo. Silver couldn't explain why he'd felt compelled to flirt so shamelessly, especially under Mrs Barlow's watchful – and quite amused – eyes. Thankfully, nothing had come of it and Silver didn't feel the need to explore the mysteries of his own impulses any further.

The road to Nassau was dusty and hot. Silver followed Flint, whose turban still hung loose around his face. Something about the way the deep blue fabric played off Flint's fire-coloured beard attracted Silver's eye over and over, each glance eliciting sensations that he preferred not to dwell on.

“You're quiet,” Flint pointed out after they'd walked in silence for the better part of an hour.

Silver grinned automatically. “Are you complaining? I do believe that you spent most of our journey to St Augustine telling me to shut up.”

“Not complaining.” There was a hint of a smile curling Flint's lips. “Just wondering what might have caused this unusual state of affairs.”

“Maybe chopping all that wood exhausted me,” Silver said, and instantly regretted bringing up that topic.

“Or you're nervous because we saw you peeping.”

It was an offhand comment, but it caught Silver like a punch in the gut. He froze on the path, every muscle screaming at him to run the opposite way. Flint noticed after a few more steps, and stopped, raising his eyebrows. His expression was surprisingly mild.

“I, uh…”

Flint watched him for a little while longer, then smirked and turned back to the road with a derisive snort. For some reason, Silver followed.

“I didn't mean to,” Silver said when he caught up with Flint. It was probably the lamest argument he'd used in his life.

“Whether you meant to or not, you might get more than you bargained for as a result of your indiscretion.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mrs Barlow may take a close interest in you, now.”

Silver thought he might choke on his own tongue. A nasty, treacherous heat in his face suggested that he was blushing. His even more treacherous cock was stirring with interest.

“And then you'd have to kill me?” Silver asked, doing his best not to stutter.

Flint glanced at him, clearly puzzled. “Why'd I have to do that?”

“Because she's your…”

“Mistress? She's her own woman, and she always enjoyed some variety. As long as whoever sleeps with her shows her the utmost respect, I don't see why I should do them any harm.”

Silver mulled all this over silently. Mistress, not wife, in spite of the ring. A mistress who took other lovers, but whom Flint was prepared to defend. This was far from anything Silver had imagined about Flint's relationship with this woman. He'd certainly not imagined that Flint would suggest that _Silver_ might become his mistress' lover. As if that was nothing at all. As if he didn't care.

“So you're saying Mrs Barlow may be interested in taking me to bed.”

“I am.”

 _But_ _are_ you _interested in_ _taking me to bed_ _?_ The words were suddenly on the tip of Silver's tongue, and he quickly stamped down the intrusive thought. God, what was _wrong_ with him?

“And that if I was amenable, you would have no objection to it?”

“I suppose not, as long as the interest was actually mutual. If I were to find out you agreed to it to use it as leverage in one of your schemes, I may not take to it kindly.”

If Flint had figured something out about Silver, it was definitely his tendency to put his schemes over anything else. Silver, on the other hand, felt that he had somewhat misread Flint. Most men were fiercely possessive of their woman – or the woman they coveted. It was unmanly to give a woman freedom, and Captain Flint usually made a great show of being manly and in command.

 _Captain_ Flint. Silver mulled that over a little, feeling as though he'd opened a door to a secret place full of possibility. Flint was different at home and on a ship. It was curious. It was utterly fascinating.

There was a smirk on Flint's face when Silver next looked up. “Apparently there are more ways than one to get you to shut up,” he said at Silver's questioning gaze. “That's something worth exploring.”

Silver just gaped, his brain conflating Flint's cheeky smile and the filthiest possible interpretation of those words. For a split second he could nearly feel the heaviness of Flint's cock in his mouth, he could nearly taste Mrs Barlow's cunt crushed into his face, and blood rushed south.

He shook himself, and hurried after Flint down the rocky path, cursing his mind and body for betraying him at such a delicate stage of his plans. He bloody well didn't have time for this nonsense.

***

Billy looked marginally better than he had when Silver had seen him the day before last. His lips were less cracked, the terrible sunburn was fading to a tan, and his wounds seemed to be healing. That was good, Silver supposed. At least, it was good if Flint planned to keep Billy alive.

Eleanor had led them into the room where she kept Billy, her face stony as ever. She had good reason to be wary. They'd found a wad of paper on Billy while they were undressing him, containing ten king's pardons. Flint had decided not to mention it himself; he wanted to see if Billy would talk about them spontaneously, to gauge his loyalty to Nassau. Silver could only approve of such underhand methods.

“Captain,” Billy rasped as Flint stood at the foot of his bed. His eyes slid over to Silver, distrust etched on his features.

“I'm glad you're back,” Flint said, with more feeling than Silver had expected.

“Where's Gates?”

Silver had been expecting that one, of course. When they'd first brought him to Billy, “Gates” was the only word he'd been able to wheeze, before falling unconscious again.

“I'm afraid Mr Gates is dead,” Flint said. “I killed him.”

All colour drained from Billy's face. “What?” His voice was soft, barely a murmur. At the look of loss on Billy's face, and the one he glimpsed on Flint's, Silver felt his stomach twist. Unbidden, the picture of Flint huddled on the ground in his cabin with Gates in his lap, tears streaming down his face, flashed in Silver's mind. Christ, why did he feel so sorry for a murderous bastard? How stupid was he?

He ignored it. Now wasn't the time for empathy or for questioning his alliance with Flint. This needed to be sorted now, and he was the only one in the room who could do it.

“The Captain and Mr Gates had a fight,” Silver said, just as Flint opened his mouth to speak. “They had a fight because Gates was convinced that Flint had killed you. Everything went awry after you fell in, Billy. Dufresne got too big for his boots, and Gates was blinded by anger. He betrayed the Captain, and gave him no choice but to fight for his life.”

Flint made a soft, angry snort. Silver could nearly feel the daggers in his glare, but he didn't pay him any attention. The story may not be true, but it _sounded_ true. That was all they needed. Only Flint knew what had truly happened, and Silver didn't much care to know the truth of the matter.

“Fuck.” Billy's knuckles had turned white where he was gripping the sheets. There had been anger and hardness rising in Billy's eyes after Flint's confession; Silver saw them dissolve into helpless grief at the senselessness of it all, and guilt over having stoked the feud between Flint and Gates. Good. If Billy was going to be useful, he couldn't hate Flint.

There was a drawn-out, heavy silence. Silver glanced up at Flint, who looked down at him, obviously angry at having been robbed of his confession. He bloody well _wanted_ to be the villain of this story, but Silver wasn't going to let him, not with what was at stake.

“Who's quartermaster now?” Billy asked, somewhat absently. His eyes fell questioningly on Silver.

“Who knows?” Flint rumbled. “Dufresne mutinied after Gates betrayed me, then we got into a fight with a Spanish warship and the Walrus was run aground. After that… well, Mr Silver and I fled before we were hanged.”

“So you didn't get the gold. And the Walrus, the crew…”

“The Urca and its gold are also beached. We don't know where the crew went. They might have managed to commandeer the warship and leave, or wandered the Florida coast on foot, or–”

“Could you still get the gold?”

Silver was so surprised by Billy's question that his knees wobbled. Flint was also struck dumb.

“Well, could you?”

“We plan to,” Flint said.

“Good.” Billy let out a long sigh, leaning back in bed. “Cause the Navy's coming for us.”

“They what?” Eleanor snapped.

“I was captured by Captain Hume of the Scarborough. They're staying on Harbour Island. He tortured me for a while, then sent me back here with ten pardons for the ten men who'd help me capture you, Captain.”

Flint blinked. “I didn't expect them quite so soon.”

“But that's what the gold was for, wasn't it? I remember the way you talked about civilisation coming for us… is that why you were so desperate for that gold?”

Flint nodded. “It was. To consolidate the fort, buy weapons, make us strong against England. Nobody was in on that plan, except for Miss Guthrie and Mr Gates.”

Billy narrowed his eyes at Flint. “You didn't trust the crew with their own survival, did you? You think they're that stupid.”

Flint shrugged. “Most people are.”

“Anyhow,” Silver cut in, before Flint managed to stoke Billy's anger again. “This is where we're at now. We can get the treasure, but Vane has the fort.”

“Vane?” Billy asked. “How come?”

“He stormed it with an all new crew,” Eleanor said. “He did it to prove a point, I don't know how long he'll hang on to it.”

“So we don't have the fort,” Billy concluded. “And the Navy's coming.”

Who was “we”, Silver wondered. Did Billy still see himself as man from Flint's crew? Was it a general “we” for the pirates of Nassau? He wouldn't complain about having Billy on side, but he couldn't help but be cautious.

“We'll figure out a way of taking back the fort,” Flint said. He cast a sidelong glance at Silver. “Our priority is getting the gold before the Spanish come to retrieve it.”

Silver couldn't help but smirk a little as he thought back to their argument that very morning, where Flint had been bent on getting the fort back first. Flint noticed, and rolled his eyes at him. It only made Silver smile wider.

“All right, so you need a ship and a crew you can trust,” Eleanor said.

Flint nodded. “And a place to anchor, close enough to Nassau, but hidden away from prying eyes. We can keep the gold there until the fort is sorted out.”

“I, uh, I might have some leads for a crew,” Silver said. Flint raised his eyebrows at him. “When I was snooping around in Nassau for you the other day, I had a little chat with Max.” Flint opened his mouth angrily, and Silver raised his hands, pressing on quickly. “I didn't tell her much, but I tried to find out if there was any crew she could trust to be discreet and efficient. And who didn't completely hate Flint.”

Eleanor snorted. “And you'd trust _her_? She's been selling my leads to other crews.”

“I trust her ability to put pettiness aside considering what's currently at stake, yes. Apparently, Rackham's got a crew with a Mr Featherstone now, and he may be willing to help.”

“How big's their ship?” Flint asked.

“Not sure, but it won't be hard to find out.”

Flint turned to Billy. “You want a part in this?”

“Yeah.” Billy's tone was grudging, but determined. This certainly wasn't about helping Flint, nor was it about the gold. It was about the Navy, Silver decided, and protecting Nassau. That was good; ideals were a better motivator than loyalty or money. “Yeah, I'll help.”

“Then we need to find a new crew.” Silver opened his mouth to argue, but this time Flint silenced him with a raised hand. “Rackham's an option, but I doubt his hold will be large enough to take back the gold. We still need a crew so we can get the Walrus sea-worthy again.”

Billy blinked at Flint thoughtfully. “That's why you have the Walrus. Gates thought it was mad to do raids in a ship that big. You were always after a huge prize, and needed the space in the hold.”

“Took you long enough to figure out,” Flint grunted. “I don't want to advertise who you're recruiting for, though. For the time being Vane doesn't know I'm back in Nassau, and I'd rather it stayed that way.”

“You want me to raise a crew without mentioning you?” Billy repeated slowly, in the patient tone he used to address idiots.

“You'll figure something out.” Flint turned to Silver. “And since you're such a friend of Max's, you can deal with her, make sure she's not stabbing us in the back.”

“You sure that's a good idea?” Eleanor asked Flint, giving Silver a disdainful glare. “What if he tells her where the gold is and she sends Rackham to retrieve it?”

Flint shrugged. “We'll easyil find out if Rackham's preparing a journey, won't we?”

“What about you, Captain?” Silver asked.

“I'll need someone to come with me in the periagua. We'll tour the islands around here, find a good place to hide the ships.”

“Hmm. I might have just the person, _and_ it might help keep Max in check.” At Flint's questioning gaze, Silver just gave a grin. “Can't say much for now, I'll need to ask first.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Well if that's all you've got for today, I suggest you both fuck off and come back when you've got a solid plan.” She glared at Billy. “I suppose you can stay until you can walk, I don't fancy having my people carry you downstairs.”

“Well thanks,” Billy returned sullenly.

“You're paying for what he's eating,” Eleanor told Flint, butting his arm with her shoulder as she walked past.

After curt goodbyes, Flint and Silver went out the back of Eleanor's house and found themselves in a winding alleyway. The sun was casting a golden light, making everything look rather more appealing than it was in cold daylight. Silver tried not to notice the way it glinted in Flint's beard, how it made Flint's eyes look as though they were filled with liquid light.

“You know what?” Silver said. “Give me a few minutes and I'll try to recruit that person to come with you with the periagua.” Time was of the essence, after all. They couldn't afford to waste more.

“I wouldn't want you to sprain anything after all your hard work today,” Flint drawled at him.

“Has anyone told you you're a real charmer?” Silver asked, a grin spreading on his face. He wasn't sure if it was a mischievous one or a terrified one. Probably both. “Stay here and I'll be back soon. All right?”

“Half an hour,” Flint called after Silver. “After that I'm heading home with or without you.”

Negotiating with Max had always been easy for Silver. They understood each other, they saw the bullshit through each other's veneer – and as such, Silver found himself being much more direct with Max than he ever would be with anyone else. He let her know how their situation had progressed since they'd last spoken. Max knew Flint was there, but had supposedly kept the information to herself. Rackham had left on a hunt a few days previously, but Max expected him back soon. This suited Silver's current plan perfectly.

“The way I see it,” Silver told Max, “she's already this close to killing someone. Might as well find a productive way to put those skills to use, don't you think?”

“But with Flint?” Max half-whispered. “I know the likes of Flint. He is no better than Vane.”

“He's nothing like Vane.” Silver blinked, surprised at his own indignation at Max's comparison.

Max's eyes narrowed as she studied him. “He is just as violent.”

“That may be so, but it's not aimless!” Silver had raised his voice, and noticed Anne Bonny glaring at him from under her hat. Shit. “It's not cruel,” he said, his voice softer. “He has a goal, and as long as you don't stand in his way or betray him, you're fine. I've survived him long enough to know that.”

“Or maybe you've been hanging around him for too long and he turned your head.”

“I highly doubt that,” Silver said with a chuckle, his stomach churning at how spot on Max's observation was.

Max scoffed, but gestured for Miss Bonny to come and join them. Silver took a deep breath, and prepared himself to be as persuasive as he possibly could be.

***

That night, Silver lay in bed staring into the darkness, cursing himself.

Chopping wood had left his arms sore, walking across the island twice should have taken out what was left of his energy, without even mentioning the mental exhaustion of having to find ways to help Flint find allies to get the gold. He ought to have fallen asleep the moment he snuffed out the candle.

But his mind wouldn't stop racing. Every time he closed his eyes, Flint was there. He loomed angrily, flushed, muscles tensed up as though he might pounce at any moment. Or he smirked, teasing, amused at Silver's embarrassment, pleased with himself for having that effect on him. Mostly, though, mostly Silver saw him naked, face half buried in his companion's soft flesh, muscles sliding under his freckled skin as he moved in her.

“Fuck,” Silver hissed, getting out of bed and walking around the room before he grew fully hard again.

Flint and Mrs Barlow weren't sleeping. He could still hear the drone of their voices in the room next door. He'd spent the better part of the evening trying his best not to eavesdrop while at the same time being unable not to. When Flint had announced that he was leaving the next morning to scout out a safe place to anchor, Mrs Barlow's face had turned stormy, and she had barely spoken a word. Supper had been a tense affair, its silence heavy and filled with the rumblings of the storm that had later broken out between them, once they'd been left alone.

Her exclamation still haunted Silver's thoughts: “You promised, James!” Silver had spent much too long wondering what Flint had promised. Not to leave again? To give up his plan to get the gold? Silver wasn't sure. He wasn't sure Mrs Barlow was an ally, or whether she would be only too happy to thwart their plans, if that meant Flint stayed home. But the storm had passed, and now Flint and his mistress rumbled together in their bedroom. Silver couldn't quite tell whether they had made up, or were still arguing more quietly.

Silver stretched, flexed, focusing on the burn in his muscles and trying to distract his cock from its stupid current obsession. He didn't need this, he fucking didn't need to be fixating on Flint and his mistress. Christ, he was going to be alone with her and God knew what was going to happen then. That was something which Silver had not thought of when he'd recruited Miss Bonny to go with Flint.

Somewhere far away a storm rumbled. In this part of the island, however, all they had was sultry, heavy air and none of the relief brought by wind and rain. Silver was suffocating, drenched in sweat. He opened his door and stepped out, making his way out of the house by the dim light of the fireplace. He didn't care that he was only wearing his trousers, nor that without a belt they rode down dangerously. The well outside was calling to him.

The cold water Silver splashed on his skin made him gasp out in shock. He welcomed the shivers and shudders, the momentary blankness in his mind. It was what he needed, not to think, not to let his imagination run wild. Numbly, he walked back to the house, focusing on the sensations on his skin, clinging to the quiet in his mind. He shaded his eyes against the light of the fire, easily finding his way back to his room. With some luck, sleep would take him when he got back into bed.

Except that he saw a white form standing in the middle of the corridor leading to his room. Sure enough, the door to Flint's room was open, and he was standing there in a loose chemise, perusing the bookshelves that were set up in the narrow space. Flint glanced at Silver, his eyes roving up and down him, intense as ever. Now Silver regretted having foregone a belt, acutely aware of the wet fabric clinging low on his hips.

“I'm fucking hot,” Silver mumbled. Then, when Flint's eyes seemed to go dark at those accidentally ambiguous words, Silver hastily added: “Outside. We're in for a storm or something.”

“Hurricane season,” Flint muttered in return, and shifted so that Silver would move past him. Perhaps it was the darkness, or exhaustion, or that bit of rum they'd had with dinner, but Silver accidentally brushed close to Flint as he went by, the hairs on his arms rising and tingling at the near-touch of Flint's shirt, and his knuckles somehow bumping against Flint's fingers. Flint stepped back abruptly, knocking into the shelves with his bad shoulder and hissing out a curse.

“Everything all right?” Mrs Barlow called out through the open door of her dimly lit bedroom, just as Silver was about to rush back into his room.

“Fine,” Flint said.

“If Mr Silver can't sleep, perhaps we could lend him a book,” Mrs Barlow said. Her voice was as sultry as the weather; Silver felt sweat beading in the small of his back.

Flint gave a gruff sigh and turned to Silver, raising an eyebrow. Silver just stood there, heart hammering so loud he was sure Flint could hear it. Now he knew how a rabbit felt when faced with a fox.

“Give him the Cervantes, James. God knows he'll need it.”

A strange expression crossed Flint's face, a mixture between an irritated scowl and a wry smile. He shook his head, then reached for a book and held it out to Silver. It would've been too rude of Silver not to step forward to retrieve the volume. He forced himself to take a step towards Flint, eyes focused on the book rather than on Flint's thundery face.

It was a copy of _Don Quixote_. Silver was careful not to touch Flint when he took it from him. Their eyes met briefly and Silver's knees actually wobbled. Flint's face was more intense than angry, his lips curled in a small, indulgent smile.

“Thanks,” Silver managed to breathe. “G'night.”

This time he truly fled into his room, not caring how it looked. His mind and body were working against him, betraying things that Silver didn't even know had been there in the first place. He put the book down on a table and threw himself into bed. Fuck. _Fuck_. It felt as though he was going mad.

Through the wall, he heard Flint return to Mrs Barlow. He called her a name, “vixen,” perhaps, a playful accusation. Her throaty chuckle in response went right to Silver's dick. And then her laughter turned to less coherent sounds, and Silver knew he was in hell. He covered his face with his hands, muffling a frustrated moan.

He gave up. There was no resisting this. Silver threw off his trousers, spread out on the soft mattress and reached for his cock. When was the last time he'd had the leisure of fondling himself on a bed, alone in a room? He reminded himself of that there was no actual danger in _imagining_ , after all. There was no danger in enjoying himself alone.

Mrs Barlow's voice floated through the wall, soft moans and encouragements, steadily growing louder and more frenzied. Silver stroked himself slowly, teasing himself, his mind aflame with pictures again. All he could think of was Flint's mouth, hot and demanding and intense, marking Silver wherever it landed. Flint would burn through him, hard and lean and unstoppable. Mrs Barlow would be soft in contrast, soft but unrelenting, strong thighs squeezing his hips tight as she rode him.

The bed in the room next door started to knock against the wall, and Christ, Mrs Barlow was shameless. She moaned aloud, wanton, and even though Silver didn't quite catch the words she was using, her tone sounded filthy. He squeezed himself frenziedly to the sound of her voice. Flint was quiet, but their bed rocked harder and faster and Christ, Silver could practically _see_ them fuck. He spilled himself all up his stomach with a barely stifled moan, just as Mrs Barlow came – not for the first time, he suspected – particularly loudly. With some luck, her sounds of pleasure would have covered his up.

Silver lay on his bed panting as the noise next door dampened. The bed continued knocking for a while, quieter, slower. Silver drifted off, rocked by that strangely gentle rhythm.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Flint's mind buzzed as he walked the path down to Nassau in the morning twilight, carrying a sack over his shoulder with everything he'd need for the journey.

His mind buzzed with plans and ideas, with the excitement of being at the very edge of success once again. It buzzed with doubts, with the knowledge that everything was so terribly fragile at the moment, that a wrong word or the smallest accident of fate could thwart his entire effort.

But most of all it buzzed over Silver; Flint wasn't sure whether he loathed or welcomed that distraction. In the last ten years, there had been no room for that. There had been less and less room in his mind for Miranda, less room even for Thomas, as his plans consumed him. And now this ridiculous thief, come out of nowhere, entirely untrustworthy, was suddenly in Flint's every thought, making his body hum in ways that it had all but forgotten.

He didn't know what to think of it. Miranda certainly seemed happy about it, and Flint couldn't deny that he'd been relieved that he could still manage to achieve release. Why did it have to be Silver, though? How had he insinuated himself so deeply into Flint's life as to become essential not only to Flint's plans of retrieving the gold, but also to his ability to reach pleasure?

It was a phase, Flint decided. They'd part ways soon enough, once Silver got what he wanted. There was no point in hoping for anything more from him, and no point in investing into any sort of relationship with him. This obsession too would pass, if Flint didn't let it have a hold on him. Hopefully, Miranda would also know better than to get too attached.

The beach where he'd hidden the periagua was quiet, save for the sounds of birds calling each other in the woods. The sun was still low on the horizon, its rosy light casting blinding reflections onto the waves. Seaweed and driftwood littered the beach, the only traces of the previous night's storm.

Flint only saw Miss Bonny when she moved out from between the trees, so well had she been camouflaged in her dark brown clothes. She walked to him quietly, staring him down from under her hat.

“'Morning,” Flint said. Loath as he was to admit it, he felt awkward in Miss Bonny's presence. He didn't know whether to address her like he did women, or like he did pirates. Her silence and obvious distrust unsettled him further. Worse: these last few weeks away from his crew, not being a Captain, seemed to have stripped away some part of the mask Flint had so carefully crafted. He'd forgotten how to be Captain Flint, dread pirate.

“Thought you'd come with a boat,” Miss Bonny said as sole greeting.

“It's over there, under the trees,” Flint said, nodding towards the recess where he'd anchored the vessel. The mangroves leaned out from the beach, hovering over the small boat and blocking its view. Only if Flint looked carefully could he see the white of the furled sails through the branches that concealed it.

Miss Bonny gave a curt nod and headed to the periagua. Flint lead the way, jumping into the small vessel and taking up an oar.

“You know what I did, right?” Miss Bonny asked suddenly, still standing on the bank above Flint, looking down at him.

Flint raised his eyebrows, unsure of what she was referring to.

“To Vane's men. Your curly mate helped us while you were after the _Andromache_.”

“I don't believe I've heard the details.” Flint couldn't say he was surprised that Silver had got himself into some kind of scheme even while Eleanor was supposed to keep him out of trouble.

“The eight bastards that stayed loyal to Vane. The Guthrie bitch and I figured out a way to get rid of them, and we used Silver as bait.”

That was news to Flint, but then Eleanor tended to tell him only what she wanted him to know. It explained why Vane had an all new crew, Flint supposed.

“Was it about Max?” Flint asked. Miss Bonny looked down at him sharply. It was all the answer Flint needed. Whatever was going on between Eleanor and Max had all the markings of a tumultuous, passionate affair. Why Miss Bonny was involved, on the other hand, remained a mystery.

“That gonna be a problem?” Miss Bonny asked. “Cause I'd rather know now, before we're stuck together on that thing.” She nodded towards the boat.

Flint looked into her face, into her defiant, angry eyes, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand hovered over her cutlass. He briefly wondered if that had been Silver's plan, to get Flint on a boat alone with someone as on edge as he was, and that they'd end up killing each other.

“I understand why Miss Guthrie wanted to free Max,” Flint said cautiously. “I'm not entirely sure why you'd take the risk of betraying your crew to help her.”

“They were torturing her. Raping her. Would you have let your crew do that?”

“No,” Flint said. “We aren't– weren't that kind of crew. It was against the ship's articles.”

“Right.” She glared at him, and he looked straight back at her, unwavering. After a while she shrugged and gave a snort. “If you say so.”

“This vessel's not going to sail itself. Are you coming, or should I go find someone else?”

She gave him the smallest of smirks and leapt into the periagua, fast and lithe as a cat. Silently, they hoisted the sails, then took up oars and pushed themselves away from the shore and into deeper waters.

***

The house was different when Silver came out of his room that morning.

When Flint had brought him there, the place had felt homely, safe. Not happy, exactly, but soothing, in a certain way. Quiet but not silent.

Perhaps it was the forceful way Mrs Barlow was sweeping that set Silver's nerves on edge. Perhaps it was the falseness of her smile and the clipped coolness of her tone when she greeted him. He didn't feel unwelcome, but he did feel like an intruder.

Silver mulled this over as he chewed on his breakfast. He'd been a guest in people's home before, of course, but the atmosphere hadn't ever bothered him. He'd revelled in tension and arguments. In fact, he'd used them for his own benefit whenever he could – and often made off with something of value, never to be seen again, letting whoever had taken him in argue and blame each other in the aftermath.

He wasn't even tempted to do that here. Try as he might to convince himself that he was simply afraid of Flint's retribution if he put one foot wrong, Silver knew it wasn't quite true. He was uneasy because Mrs Barlow, far from smiling and flirting with him as Silver had somewhat dreaded, was in a mood. Silver barely knew her. It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did.

Once she'd viciously swept the whole house clean, Mrs Barlow made for the door and fastened on a hat. “I'll be in the garden if you need me, Mr Silver,” she called to him. She didn't quite meet his eyes, and he only had time to make a muffled sound of agreement around a mouthful of cornbread before she was out the door.

Silver should have been glad. He had the house to himself, food, a bed, even a book to read. Flint was gone, and with him the suffocating tension that rose in Silver whenever they stood close. This was a perfect occasion for Silver to rest. God knew he wouldn't have another opportunity once Rackham returned to Nassau.

Yet when he got up, he made for the front door and walked through the yard. Mrs Barlow was picking beans in the vegetable patch.

“Would you like some help?” he asked.

She looked up at him from under her hat, and her lips curled into a sad little smile. “It would be most welcome, Mr Silver.”

Why he felt relieved that Mrs Barlow had accepted his help, Silver couldn't explain. The prospect of fiddling with beanstalks under the beating sun wasn't one that particularly appealed to him, after all. But her tone, her expression, had made it quite clear that she wasn't angry with him. Somehow, this was important.

After all, he reasoned with himself, it was good to have as many allies as he could get. Ingratiating himself with the woman who was said to control Flint was a rather good strategic move. That had to be why he was pleased that she wasn't angry with him, obviously.

Silver noticed a woman walking through the brush, two children in tow. She was dressed modestly, perhaps too warmly for the Caribbean climate, and wore a wide-brimmed hat. At first Silver supposed that she was going to Nassau and paid her little attention, but then she chose the path that led to Mrs Barlow's farm. Mrs Barlow noticed too, and gave a barely audible groan as the woman approached.

“Mrs Browne,” Mrs Barlow said, standing up as the woman stopped behind the fence. The newcomer had a stern, frosty face with beady brown eyes. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Mrs Barlow,” the woman said with a curt nod, her eyes already latching on Silver, who was still kneeling in the soil. He realised that he hadn't fastened his shirt, which gaped open and left his sweaty chest rather exposed. At least he was wearing his waistcoat, so all propriety wasn't lost.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Mrs Barlow asked, her warm tone turning more guarded at the pinched look on Mrs Browne's face.

“We didn't see you at mass last Sunday.”

“Indeed. I was otherwise occupied,” Mrs Barlow answered. The woman glanced at Silver again, as though Mrs Barlow had been occupied with him.

“Is there indeed any occupation more important than the worship of the Lord, Madam?”

Silver was tempted to roll his eyes. Instead, he cast them down and continued picking beans. It wasn't his fight. It wasn't even his business. But Christ, sanctimonious bigots just rubbed him up the wrong way.

“I worship the Lord, Madam,” Miranda retorted with a bright smile. “And I believe that He would not be offended whether I worship at home or in church.”

“Is that a pirate?” one of the children piped up, pointing at Silver. Silver's stomach lurched with the sick feeling of being discovered. He had to force himself to look up at the children and smile genially.

“Henry, you be quiet!” Mrs Browne snapped at her son.

“But this morning you told Mrs Pickering that a pirate lives in this house,” the boy whined.

Mrs Barlow's face was a strange mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“We'll be seeing you in church next Sunday, Mrs Barlow, won't we?” Mrs Browne said, snatching her son's hand and dragging him backwards, embarrassed but still disdainful. “Good day to you.”

The woman hurried away, and Mrs Barlow settled back down in the soil next to Silver, sagging as though she were exhausted. She stared into the distance, perhaps still watching her neighbour.

“I didn't know it was possible for prigs to survive on New Providence,” Silver said at last.

Mrs Barlow turned to him, smiling and sighing all at once. “They're the last survivors of the attempts to colonise the place. A few have plantations. Mostly they just have rather modest farms.”

“And a great fear of god,” Silver quipped before he could stop himself.

“It's not that. Not only that, at any rate.” Mrs Barlow's voice sounded distant, as though she were thinking out loud. “This is about me, not about religion.”

“How so?”

She turned to him and gave a shrug. “Pirates have made it a habit of raiding these people. They settled this far from Nassau to find some peace. Some of them lost their belongings, some lost their loved ones.”

“Ah. So they get nervous when Flint visits?”

“They do. Ironically, they don't seem to realise that the reason why pirates don't raid the area anymore is because James lives here. Few people are bold enough to attack his territory, and those who tried paid for it dearly.”

“I can imagine,” Silver said. Pictures of Flint's face after he'd killed Singleton, covered in blood, nostrils wide, teeth bared, still played in Silver's mind from time to time. Flint had been terrifying and powerful and, for reasons Silver wasn't keen to examine, strangely appealing.

“And so this is my trouble,” Mrs Barlow continued. “Since I'm the pirate's woman, I cannot be a respectable member of the congregation. Yet I cannot sail the seas myself, so I have to live in this congregation which despises me.”

Silver made a face. He recalled, now, that one of the accusations that Gates had written out in his letter was that Flint had attempted to betray the crew, sail to Boston and receive a pardon. It seemed very unlike Flint. Mrs Barlow, however… he could certainly see how she could have encouraged him into such a plan.

She was alone here, and desperate. She also had the greatest influence over Flint. If she so chose, she may well be able to make him give up the gold. This wasn't an outcome Silver was ready to let happen.

“Why can't you sail with him?” he asked. “I don't recall anything in the articles about women being forbidden from being on the Walrus.”

Mrs Barlow gave a small smile. “I asked James to take me with him, many a time. I threatened to leave if he didn't. And yet, as you can see, he's gone to sea, and here I am in my garden.” She sighed. “It's all right. I can't truly blame him, he needs someone with him who knows how to sail. I'd probably be a hindrance.”

“Oh, rubbish,” Silver said. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Look at me!” He grinned broadly. “I can't sail, I can't fight, and apparently I'm a shit cook. Has it stopped me from sailing with Flint _and_ saving his life many a time? It's not about technical skills with him, is it? He has all those. He needs…” Silver only then noticed how intently Miranda was watching him, and words failed him.

“He needs a partner,” Mrs Barlow finished for him.

“I was going to say, he needs someone quick-witted who can smooth over the feathers he ruffles.”

“Precisely. He needs a partner who makes up for his flaws.”

“If you sailed with us, you could play that role,” Silver said, trying to ignore the idea that Flint needed _him_ as a partner, that _he_ made up for Flint's flaws. “And I hear that ships always need someone who knows how to tend a wound.”

“Are you recruiting me, Mr Silver?” she asked with a playful grin that sent searing heat all down his spine.

Silver just laughed. “All I can say is that if it keeps the Captain on course, I'll strongly support your presence on board.”

“Because that would be beneficial to you. If James doesn't waver, you'll get your gold.”

Bloody hell, she was good. Silver's face broke into a grin so tight he could practically feel his jaw cramp. “You read my mind.”

“Why do you want the gold so badly?”

“Ah, that's a question from a woman who's never wanted for anything,” Silver answered before he could stop himself.

Mrs Barlow cocked her head. “Am I such a woman?”

“Aren't you? You have rather luxurious tastes, for a modest puritan. You speak with the authority of someone who's ordered staff around. You're educated and you play the clavichord.” And she was bold. Common women who thought themselves respectable would never take lovers. Aristocrats, though – infidelity was one of their favourite pastimes.

“And what do you deduce from that?”

“That you are a Lady, madam. Of noble birth, perhaps. You certainly navigated the highest social circles.”

Her eyes twinkled and her lips curled into a brilliant smile. She was delighted to have been recognised for what she was. As though it was hard to guess. Had nobody here actually guessed? Were they that dense?

“You haven't answered my question, Mr Silver. You say that the only thing that interests you is the gold. What do you hope to achieve with your share?”

The words fell out of Silver's mouth before he could even think. “Freedom. Safety. I hate being a sailor, I'm certainly not a pirate, and to be honest, hard work isn't exactly my forte. I'd rather secure a large sum and make it last me a lifetime.”

“And how would you occupy yourself, once you've settled down somewhere?”

Silver picked the last bean off the vine he was working on. “I suppose I could invest in a large building and turn it into a tavern.”

“That sounds like hard work to me.”

“Perhaps, but the profits would go to me, not some rich Lord who happens to own the ship I work on.”

“Wouldn't it be lonely?”

“Hopefully not,” he said with a chuckle. “That would mean I have no customers.”

“That's not what I meant, Mr Silver.” She sat back and looked at him.

“I'm not all that keen on people, truth be told.” Mrs Barlow raised her eyebrows, smirking. He grinned back at her. “What?”

“For someone who's not keen on people, you do a good job of appearing interested.”

“People are interesting enough, for a while,” he said carefully. “As long as I don't get dragged into their troubles.”

“But you saved James several times, if I understand correctly.”

Silver hadn't expected her to bring Flint into it. The answer, the one Silver had come up with after nights of thinking it over, wouldn't come out at first. He chuckled, but it sounded forced to his ears. She was clever, and bound to notice.

“I'd do a lot of things to get that gold. Keeping Flint alive seemed like an essential step in achieving that goal.”

It didn't ring true, but Mrs Barlow gave a smile and a nod, as though accepting it. “Can you tell me about the time you saved James from drowning?”

“Well… we were in deep trouble, at that point. I mean, the Walrus was being attacked by a Spanish man-of-war. Possibly by my fault, since I set off the first cannon.”

“James intended to do that, didn't he?”

“Yes, but he was interrupted when Dufresne started a mutiny. I decided to help him along. We'd figured out the warship was escorting the treasure galleon.”

“All the same, it's rather a bold move to start a battle that you weren't sure you'd be able to win, especially with James wounded and the crew mutinying.”

“It was a calculated risk.” That was a blatant lie. He'd acted entirely out of impulse, panic and defiance after having been attacked by DeGroot. “And also my only option. The crew wanted my skin as much as they wanted Flint's.”

“What happened then?”

“They shot at us. Dozens of cannons all at once.” A massacre. Not something Silver had ever wanted to provoke. Thinking of the stench of blood and gunpowder mingling on the deck still made him want to retch. “I'm not exactly sure how it happened, there was too much chaos, but I saw some of the ship collapse and Flint go under.”

He'd followed. Silver wasn't the best diver, but that didn't stop him. Nor had he thought that, while he dived, cannonballs would be whizzing past him. He'd just followed Flint in a mindless panic. The water had smashed against Silver's body just as hard as it had the first time he'd jumped from the Walrus. He'd struggled and gasped for breath before plunging after Flint.

He'd seen the bubbles, seen Flint's still form, his coat floating, hair waving like seaweed. Flint had been incredibly heavy, waterlogged, and Silver couldn't be sure whether he were unconscious, or whether he was just letting himself sink.

He was so taken up in his own thoughts that he only noticed too late that they must have been written all over his face. Mrs Barlow was watching him, twisting a bean idly in her hands.

“Well, I jumped after him and grabbed him,” Silver continued. “The Walrus was going to go down anyway. Actually I think it helped that we were underwater, rather than where the cannons were aimed. And then when we surfaced he coughed and spluttered and fainted again.”

Silver hadn't been sure whether he'd been dragging a live man or a corpse. Flint had been limp, and Silver couldn't swim and make sure Flint was breathing all at the same time. Never had he been happier to hear someone groan and curse at him when he'd finally thrown Flint down on the beach.

“Lucky for us, the shore wasn't too far and the warship left after they'd dealt enough damage,” Silver finished. “Then the rest of the crew arrived and the doctor patched him up.”

“Thank you, Mr Silver.” She reached out and touched his hand. Her fingers were soft. “I am truly grateful for what you've done, and what you are still doing.”

“Even if it's entirely self-serving?” Silver asked, giving her his best smug grin.

Her smile, earnest and warm, and the squeeze she gave his hand sent a jolt into Silver's chest. It was like she knew, like she could see through his bluff. It was like he was discovered. He gave her a smile back, feeling his cheeks twitch with nerves. The instinct to run was screaming louder than ever.

“I'll bring these in,” he said, taking hold of both baskets and hurrying indoors.

Silver spent the rest of the day in his room, reading Don Quixote. It was a good distraction, although his mind often drifted to Mrs Barlow's voice when she had told Flint to give it to him. _God knows he'll need it_ , she'd said. Was Silver meant to be Sancho Panza, the squire helping Flint do battle on windmills? He rather thought that was the idea. Once again, it underlined Mrs Barlow's lack of faith in Flint's endeavours. That really needed to change, if they were to succeed in getting that gold.

“Mr Silver?” He hadn't heard Mrs Barlow approach and startled slightly at her voice. It was low and sultry as ever; he wondered if this was the moment she had chosen to seduce him.

She smiled when she saw him reading. “Are you enjoying it?”

“It's an interesting read,” he said, making himself smile back at her through the pounding of his heart.

“I wonder if you'd help me with dinner.”

Oh. Relief washed over him, but disappointment ever so subtly made his chest ache, too.

“Of course.” Silver grinned to himself as he set the book on the bedside table and got up to follow her. He wasn't _quite_ a guest here, was he? Even far from Flint, he was still his skivvy. Not that he minded, really, but it was good to know where he stood in this situation.

Mrs Barlow settled by the fireplace and handed Silver some potatoes to peel. She started stringing and slicing broad beans. He may be a skivvy, but it was interesting that neither Mrs Barlow nor Flint had ever questioned his motives or his character. She'd given him a blade although he was a total stranger. She trusted him. She really shouldn't trust someone so easily.

“Have I said something amusing?”

Silver looked up from the potato he was peeling. “Hm?”

“You're smirking to yourself.” And Mrs Barlow didn't seem to mind. She was watching him with her knowing eyes, a smile on her lips.

“I was just thinking that this was a terribly unexpected situation.”

“I hope I haven't offended you by asking for your help in the kitchen.”

“No, not at all. I was just…” He chuckled and rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He really shouldn't mention it. It scared the shit out of him. And yet. “Captain Flint said something about you before I left. But I think he was toying with me.”

“Ah.” Mrs Barlow's smile broadened, her eyes seemed darker all of a sudden. “Did James tell you that I may want to take you to bed?”

Silver blushed. He knew he did, he could feel the burn in his cheeks and the heat in the tips of his ears. What he didn't know was why. He'd seen it coming, he'd considered the advantages and disadvantages of sleeping with Mrs Barlow. He should have grinned and flirted and casually played along. But somehow he was still taken by surprise.

“That's very much what he said,” Silver managed, hoping that the blush would somehow make him look charming.

“And would you like me to take you to bed?”

“I…” His tongue got stuck on a sudden rush of words. Of course he did, and it was such a bad idea. “I think it's risky, don't you?”

Mrs Barlow chuckled. “Is it? James doesn't mind. And it isn't as though I have a good reputation to preserve, I'm afraid.” She tilted her head to the side, her smile sharp and predatory. “Besides, that didn't answer my question.”

Silver stared at her, aware of the gallop in his chest, of how still he had gone. What had been the question? The look on her face was mesmerising. She was mesmerising. Didn't she realise that _that_ was the reason it was risky? He already got lost in her too easily. He already _liked_ her.

“I think you know the answer,” Silver said slowly, voice thick. “And that you're just toying with me now.” Just like Flint was. Damn the two of them.

She laughed then, a warm chuckle that vibrated into his core. “Not entirely, Mr Silver. I do want to take you to bed, you see. But it needs to be genuine. I have a feeling that you have slept with people for, let us say, practical reasons. Many people do.”

“Have you?” Silver blurted out before he could stop himself.

“I have,” Mrs Barlow said without a trace of embarrassment. “Though I find it rather tedious.”

“It is,” Silver muttered. And sometimes worse than tedious, but that was easily forgotten if he didn't think about it too hard.

“And I know when someone tries to seduce me with an ulterior motive.” She gave a small smile. “I think you have been considering it – to cement my commitment to James' scheme, perhaps.”

“Ah, you've caught me out.” Silver gave her his best grin. It was convenient to let her believe that his interest in her was purely for the sake of manipulation.

“But I also know that you truly want to go to bed with me.” She let the last piece of bean fall into the pot. “And perhaps not just me. Your fascination when you were watching James and I wasn't feigned.”

He should have expected she'd bring that up, that she'd be as brazen as Flint was. More brazen than him, even, considering how she'd stared into his eyes while Flint fucked and fingered her. And now she was suggesting that Silver wanted Flint as well? How obvious had he been? Fuck. Silver sat rooted to his chair, his spine tingling with the urge to flee while his lower belly hummed with lust.

Their eyes met. The air between them felt thick, dizzying. All Silver needed to do was lean forward and claim her mouth. It seemed so easy, yet he couldn't move.

“Did you enjoy it as much as we did?” she asked, her eyes never leaving his. “Did you think about it again, when you were alone in your room?”

She was going to kill him. Was it possible to be this aroused and this frightened all at once? It was such a terrible idea to let her close, but Silver was also transfixed by her gaze, fascinated by her voice. Fuck, wasn't it enough that Flint had that effect on him? Why did he have to want her too?

“Do you know, the first thing I heard about you was that you were a witch,” Silver said with a chuckle.

Mrs Barlow smirked at him, and unwrapped a piece of salt pork to boil with their beans and potatoes. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hm. They said that Flint is undead and that you control him. And also that you do unspeakable things to keep him safe in battle.”

“Then perhaps my magic compelled you to save him?” Silver chuckled, and she smiled wider. “Although I think James has quite enough compelling magic of his own.”

The tension had fallen, unlikely as that seemed. Want still simmered in Silver's belly, but it wasn't this uncomfortable, desperate, terrified thing anymore. Something about Mrs Barlow's voice made him feel safe. It was wrong, so wrong, to let himself feel safe. But Silver decided to bask in it for a little while. There was no harm in that, as long as he didn't forget to be cautious.

Mrs Barlow played a few pieces on the clavichord while dinner cooked. The tunes were familiar to Silver; he'd heard them somewhere in England. It felt like centuries ago, like another world. He'd never thought he missed it, but something about Mrs Barlow's playing brought a strange nostalgia with it. Perhaps it was because of the expression on her face, distant and melancholy, as the tune unfurled under her fingers.

Dinner was good, at least by Silver's standards. Mrs Barlow mentioned that James – that _Flint_ – would have probably found half a dozen ways of improving it.

“Is that man ever satisfied with anything?” Silver asked, chuckling, but also still smarting every time he recalled Flint's disparaging comments about his cooking.

“He can be quite particular about food. To be fair, he knows his way around a kitchen better than I do.”

“How? I mean, he's also incredible in a battle, and he sailed that periagua as if it were the easiest thing in the world.”

“James has many talents.”

“He likes to improve himself, I suppose. I noticed he paints. He also reads, I've seen books in Spanish and Latin and French…”

“He dabbles in those, especially French. His accent is deplorable.”

“Thank god he's deplorable at _something_ ,” Silver said with a chuckle.

Mrs Barlow was watching him again, a wicked little glimmer in her eyes. Desire stirred restlessly in Silver's groin; speaking about Flint wasn't helping, and Silver suspected that Mrs Barlow was aware of the effect it had on him.

“I can wash the dishes, if you like,” Silver said, a little too quickly.

“I would rather you joined me in my bedroom,” Mrs Barlow said lightly. “But if you want to do the dishes, by all means…”

Silver chuckled half-heartedly and collected the dirty plates and crockery. Mrs Barlow stood up and made her way out. Silver nearly dropped the spoon he'd just picked up when her fingers lightly brushed all along his shoulders as she walked past him, leaving a tingling trail of goosebumps behind them. She retired to her bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

God, and Silver thought Flint made him burn. Mrs Barlow was so much worse, because it was real. It was about to happen. Silver could deny it all he wanted, fight it all he wanted, he knew that sooner or later he'd end up in bed with her, no matter the danger. Perhaps… perhaps if he gave in to temptation, he would be more clear-headed afterwards. That seemed like a reasonable enough idea.

Silver entered the bedroom after hurriedly putting the plates in a bucket to soak. Mrs Barlow was in her stays, unfastening her petticoats. She'd unpinned her hair; it fell in long dark waves all the way down her back. As Silver entered, she glanced up at him and gave him a smile. It wasn't smug, it wasn't even sultry. It was warm, open, as though she were genuinely pleased that he had joined her.

“Would you help me with my stays?” Her fingers were moving deftly over the laces fastening her skirts.

Silver approached, throat thick, heart galloping. The urge to run had gone, now that he'd made his choice. Now he wanted to touch the soft, smooth skin of her shoulders. He wanted to taste her lips and her skin and her cunt. How long had it been since he'd let himself have someone he truly wanted? He wasn't sure that he'd ever had such an opportunity.

Mrs Barlow's stays were silky when he ran his fingers down them. She shifted under his touch, eyes closing, a sigh escaping her throat. Silver stood behind her and stroked along the fine fabric, down her sides, down her stomach. He could feel the heat coming off her shoulders and smell orange blossom in her hair.

Her breath caught in her throat when Silver pressed his lips to the back of her neck, fumbling with the laces of her stays. One by one, her petticoats fell to the ground. Silver couldn't help but think that he was standing exactly where Flint had been when Silver had watched him kissing her throat, sliding a hand under her skirt. Silver shivered as he remembered how their eyes had met, ever so briefly. What was this magic, between the three of them? Perhaps Mrs Barlow truly was a witch.

When Mrs Barlow stood before Silver in only her shift, she turned around and took his face in her hands. She was still smiling, her eyes soft as her fingers stroked over his cheeks. Something about her touch made a turmoil of feelings bubble up into Silver's chest, made his breath come quicker. Then she kissed him, gently, unlike anything he'd expected. Silver let himself melt into her, drawing her close. She was warm against his chest, wrapping her arms around him as they explored each other's lips.

Little by little, she removed Silver's clothing, sliding his waistcoat off his shoulders, then stepping back to pull his shirt over his head. Her hands were hot and firm, gliding up and down his back, drawing delighted gasps from him as he arched against her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips coming back to suck at his, hungry and wanton now. Silver could barely think anymore through the haze of lust that filled his mind and body.

Mrs Barlow ran her fingers over his shoulders and chest, exploring, drawing strange shapes on his skin. Silver couldn't help but wonder whether she was marking him with sigils, putting a spell on him. But then her fingers slid down his waist and started to unbuckle his belt, even as she kissed him again. It wasn't long before he'd rid himself of his shoes, and before his trousers fell around his ankles.

Silver could feel her eyes on him, her gaze appraising him from head to toe, and a forced grin automatically rose to his lips. He knew this part, this moment where a woman gauged what he had to offer and decided whether she liked it or not. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but he was used to that, he expected it. What he didn't expect was for her eyes to dart back to his, knowing, understanding. Silver's smile wavered as her gaze pierced into him. Mrs Barlow's fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, and she was kissing him again.

“You can have me any way you like,” she told him softly, her words drawing a shuddering gasp from him. “Just tell me.”

Tell her what he wanted? Jesus Christ, as if he'd ever be able to do that. But her words set his mind aflame and her hands stoked the fire, exploring his skin, teasing his nipples, squeezing his arse. Her shift was brushing against Silver's cock, and he was so obscenely hard that he didn't even dare move.

“Should I take it off?” Mrs Barlow asked, smiling against his lips. She moved forward slightly, so that he rubbed harder against the fabric. His cock jerked at the touch and Silver bit back a moan.

“Please,” Silver gasped. “I… I want to feel you.” That sounded stupid to Silver, but Mrs Barlow didn't seem to mind. She pressed a kiss to his lips, then stood back to pull her shift over her head. Fuck, she was gorgeous. She was gorgeous, and she had taken hold of his hands, guiding them over her skin, pressing them over her breasts. Their soft flesh filled his palms, her nipples hardened at his touch and Silver could barely breathe.

He kissed along her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat, feeling the rasp of her breath and her pulsing heart under her skin. He teased at her nipple with one hand, letting the other run down her belly. Her stomach shuddered softly as he touched her, her breath hitched as they kissed. Silver's fingers tangled in the dark curls that concealed her cunt.

“Yes,” she breathed softly. Silver took it as an invitation to brush against her with his knuckles, ever so lightly, then to rub his thumb along her clit. She sighed into his ear, pushing her cunt against his hand. Silver's cock grew even heavier with want when he felt how wet she already was.

“Should we...” Silver started, his voice low and rasping. He nodded towards the bed. Mrs Barlow smiled, snaking her hand around his wrist and moving backwards, drawing him with her to the mattress. She sat at the edge of the bed, and her hand came up to draw a line all down Silver's cock with feather-light fingers. He bit down a moan, and she smiled up at him, teasing at the head of his cock with her thumb, then with the tip of her tongue.

“Fuck,” Silver let out. “Mrs Barlow…”

“Miranda,” she told him, her voice throaty and low, exploring his cock with her tongue. Then her lips engulfed him, and Silver could do nothing more but stand there, shuddering with pleasure at the tight pressure of her mouth, at the slide of her tongue against his length. She gazed up at him as she swallowed him down and squeezed him in her fist, moving in long slow strokes over his cock. It was all Silver could do not to come right there and then.

Perhaps Mrs Barlow– Perhaps _Miranda_ had felt the tension building in his balls, because she released him, smirking up at him wickedly. “You have a delicious cock, John.” She gave it a final lick, as if to prove her point.

John. It sounded strange to Silver. Nobody used his first name – it wasn't exactly his true first name, but it still sounded intimate and personal when she said it. There was a small pang, a small impulse to flee, but it was quashed the moment Miranda drew him down to kiss her again. Her mouth tasted of his cock, sending Silver into a frenzy.

Silver kissed down her chin, her throat, trailing his lips and tongue down her skin to suck at one of her breasts. Miranda moaned, arching into his touch, her thighs falling open. She knew where he was headed and even so there wasn't an ounce of coyness about her. They smiled at each other and Silver lowered himself between her thighs.

He'd never done this for his own pleasure, never taken the time to enjoy the scent of a woman, the heat coming off her. He kissed up along Miranda's inner thigh, feeling her legs tense with anticipation. Delicately, he parted her folds with a finger, drawing an encouraging sound from her as he rubbed her clit, and a wanton moan when he slid two fingers inside of her. Only then did Silver lick at her clit, light and teasing until Miranda's hips rose off the mattress to meet his mouth.

He pressed his tongue harder to her clit, drawing circles over it, following the rhythm of her writhing hips. Her fingers had tangled in his hair. Little by little they tightened, pulling dully as her pleasure grew. Then her legs trembled, straining like bowstrings as he licked and pumped inside of her. She came with a loud cry, her thighs clenching around his head, her cunt pulsing all around his fingers in waves. Silver couldn't help giving his own cock a squeeze, moaning softly as it leaked precum onto his fingers.

Miranda didn't release her grip on Silver's hair. Instead, she used her leverage to draw him up again, to bring his lips to hers and devour them. Silver let himself fall forward into her arms, rolled with her onto the mattress. They kissed until they were breathless, until she was straddling him, her wet cunt rubbing against his stomach, her breasts brushing tantalizingly against his chest.

“Please,” Silver gasped, sliding his hands over her hips. She raised an eyebrow at him, her smile turning wicked. She reached behind her and her fingers wrapped tight around his cock.

“Is this what you'd like? I saw you were touching yourself just now.” She tugged at him slowly, an exquisite torture. Silver heard his own breath, hoarse and gasping, and could barely believe he was the one making those sounds. “Or were you thinking about something more?”

“I want to be inside of you,” Silver managed to answer without actually whining with need. He saw the delighted shiver Miranda gave, revelled in the curve of her smile. Then she drew herself upright, hovering above his cock. Silver looked up at her, up the smooth expanse of her stomach and the curve of her breasts. She was smiling down at him, hair tousled, falling over her shoulders. He felt the heat of her cunt at the head of his cock, and she looked him in the eye as she sank down onto him slowly.

“Christ, you feel so good,” she sighed, rocking above him, squeezing his cock inside her.

Silver watched himself slide into her and back out, mesmerised by her slickness glistening on his cock. He grabbed her hips, trying to catch his breath, closing his eyes against her exquisite heat engulfing him. He wanted to enjoy the moment, to draw it out forever, but his balls were already so fucking tight, begging for release. Miranda's hands wrapped around his wrists, stroking them, stroking the back of his hands. The touch was so intimate, so gentle, that Silver forgot himself and started thrusting up to meet her, started to let pleasure rise dangerously.

“Wait,” he moaned, stilling her for a moment. He caught his breath, as much as that was possible, running his hands up her body, cupping her breasts. “I want to see you come again,” he told her. And he did. It might have been a strategy to last a little longer, but fuck did he want to see her face twist in ecstasy – from him, his touch, his cock inside her.

Miranda smiled at him, drawing his hand between her thighs, letting out a long sigh as he pressed his fingers to her clit. She started moving against him in small circles. Silver wondered at his own strategy – this was even more arousing, more likely to make him lose control than before, yet he welcomed it. He welcomed each of her gasping breaths, each squeeze around his aching cock, each shift of her hips against his hand.

Soon she was thrusting forward into his fingers, her hips moving faster and faster. Silver's cock was on the verge of explosion; he took deep breaths and willed himself to keep calm when she started rocking back and forth frenziedly, moaning, her locks sliding over her shoulder and curling over her breasts. She came again, arching her back, shuddering all around him, and Christ, Silver didn't know how he managed to keep himself from following her.

She looked down at him at last, raised her eyebrows at him. “Are you close, John?” Her question nearly set him off, he dug his fingers into her hips to keep her still.

“Yes… fuck. Not inside,” he managed to answer.

She gave a small chuckle, nearly mocking, but let him slide out of her. He whined quietly at the loss of her heat, but her hand closed around him, even as she bent forward to press all of her weight against him and kiss him hotly. Silver could barely think, he thrust up into her hand, hard, fast. He came with a cry, pleasure ripping through him like a thunderbolt. His hot spend splattered onto his belly, between her thighs.

Miranda gave a contented sigh, and pressed her head into the nook of his shoulder, her body spread over his. Silver wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair, trying to remember how to breathe. As he lay beneath her, the witch, the enchantress, and enjoyed the touch of her lips pressing soft kisses to his throat, he knew that he was doomed, and didn't really care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I have to apologise for not answering your lovely, lovely comments! They give me life, but I'm an awkward dork and not always good at answering. But I love you guys for sticking with me and reading this story! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a translation of the Irish, hover over the text or see the end notes.

Silver had lost count of how many times he'd been ensnared by Miranda, of how many times she'd had her lovely way with him, or he with her, over the last couple of days. He'd lost track of time, though he knew he'd brokered a deal with Rackham and Max just the previous day, and celebrated enthusiastically with Miranda upon his return. He'd lost track of time and he was a little sore, and he didn't care.

Now he lay between her thighs, his cheek on her breast, listening to the sound of her heart slow down as she caught her breath. Her legs were still tangled around his, her fingers playing in his curls.

“How,” Silver said, when his voice finally returned. It was supposed to be a sentence, an insightful question perhaps, but he couldn't find more words to voice it.

“How am I so talented?” Miranda offered. They both chuckled, her laughter vibrating against his ear. He didn't even need to see her face to know that she was smirking. “How do I have such stamina?”

“Yes to both of these.” He propped himself up a little to look into her eyes. “And how is it so easy for you to climax like you do, over and over?”

Miranda laughed, rolling her hips under him. His soft cock brushed against her still-wet cunt. Their bellies were sticky where he'd spent himself, even after she'd wiped them up. Silver didn't care about that either.

“The latter is a gift bestowed by nature. I learned to never to be ashamed of that gift, and to cultivate it, which led to my talent and my stamina.”

“When did you discover this gift of nature?” Silver asked, lazily tracing a pattern around Miranda's nipple with his fingertip.

“I'm not sure. I was quite young, certainly.” She smiled. “It was easy when it was only me, alone in my bedroom. Or with one of my friends.”

“Girls, I imagine?”

“Yes. It got infinitely more complicated when men became involved. That's when parents start to worry about propriety. And I certainly didn't want to be married off to some utter idiot because I'd let lust get the better of me.”

“You were married, though,” Silver blurted out, realising a little late that he was treading dangerous waters. Miranda looked down at him, her eyes a little wary. “I mean, you're wearing a ring and they call you Mrs Barlow, so I assumed…”

“You assumed correctly.” She lay back with a sigh, gazing at the ceiling, stroking the nape of Silver's neck. “Once in a lifetime, if you are very lucky, you might meet someone who is exceptionally suited to you. I'd had many a suitor, but Thomas… Thomas was unlike anyone else.”

Something coiled in Silver's stomach, unpleasant and cold and bitter, and yet he wanted to know more about this man whom Miranda seemed to adore. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that however much he enjoyed his time with this woman, it was no more than that – passing time until he got his share of gold. And the more he knew about her, the more he could use that to his advantage.

“How so?” Silver managed to ask casually. She wasn't watching his face, thankfully.

“He believed in freedom, in being happy even if it involved breaking the chains of convention and propriety. And he gave me freedom, the freedom to say what I thought, to do what I wanted, to take other lovers.”

“Hm, a libertine, then? I assume he took advantage of the same freedom.” There might have been a hint of derision in Silver's comment.

“Of course,” she answered, and if she'd picked up on Silver's tone, she made no comment. “But we always returned to each other – and sometimes enjoyed the company of each other's lovers.”

“What about Flint?” Silver said, the words jumping out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Miranda raised herself on an elbow to look at him, eyebrows slightly drawn together. “What about him?”

“I presume he was one of your lovers, back in those days?”

“He was.”

“He's a Navy man, isn't he?” It was as though now that Silver had opened the door to his curiosity about Flint, all the questions came pouring out.

Miranda's face relaxed, a smile now playing on her lips. “What makes you say that?”

“He's too good a military strategist not to have some kind of training. And… and I don't think he's of noble birth. He works too hard to further himself. But he had to be some kind of officer to mix with you and your husband – who I assume was a Lord of some sort?”

“You're very perceptive,” was Miranda's only answer. She seemed amused.

“And so…” The next question burned Silver's lips, yet he was afraid to ask it. “Where is your husband now?”

“He paid the price of ignoring the conventions of society. His father had him sent to Bedlam. He…” Her voice faltered here, and her eyes glistened. “He didn't live long after that.”

“Fuck,” Silver breathed, momentarily stunned by the heinousness of such an act. He rubbed her shoulder, trying to offer some comfort, awkward as it was. “I'm so sorry.”

Miranda gave a small, heartbreaking smile. “You weren't to know. After Thomas was locked away, James and I were accused of adultery and had to flee London.”

A thousand questions crowded Silver's head as he tried to piece together the information he'd been given and spin it into a story that made sense. A father wouldn't send his son to Bedlam for allowing his wife to stray, not when he could punish her and her lover instead. Miranda's husband must have done something else, then, something even more scandalous. And why had Flint and Miranda chosen to flee to Nassau, where they were so obviously miserable, rather than settle in a nice town in Europe? Revenge, perhaps? Was this what Flint sought, revenge against a world that had stripped him of his hard-earned position? Even that didn't ring quite true. Silver recalled the desperate, broken look on Flint's face after he'd killed Gates. There was more to it, but Silver couldn't put his finger on it.

“Oh dear, you'll give yourself apoplexy if you let your mind boil like that,” Miranda said with a smile, stroking a curl off Silver's cheek.

“I'm sorry,” Silver said. “It's really none of my business bu–”

He was interrupted by the sound of distant cannon fire. Silver jerked up, glancing out of the open window, even though Nassau was far away and there wasn't the smallest chance of seeing anything.

“Did you hear that?”

“Were those cannons?”

“It had better not be the Navy” Silver growled, rolling off the bed and grabbing his clothes. “Not now we're so close to our goal. I've got to see what's going on.”

“Be careful, then. And take the mare.”

Silver blinked at her. “The mare.”

“She's not all that young, but she'll enjoy a good trot. You should be in Nassau in less than an hour.”

“Right. There's only one problem.”

“Which is?”

“I… don't exactly know how to ride. Especially not over a long distance.”

Miranda looked at him for what felt like an eternity. “All right, then help me get dressed.”

* * *

 

Two days had gone by quietly. Terribly quietly. Flint had realised, about an hour into his voyage with Miss Bonny, that something was missing: the background noise of Silver's constant conversation, his incessant questions, his pointless observations. The silence was unnerving, even though Miss Bonny seemed to have relaxed into her role rather well.

They were still exploring the shores of Berry Islands. A few coves and bays had seemed of interest, but none was truly ideal. Too small, too narrow, too open, too shallow, too rocky, too far from freshwater. They'd dismissed most places without even a visit, and landed on a few beaches only to be disappointed by what they found.

As they sailed between beaches, between small islands, Flint's mind wandered, time and again, to places that were far from appropriate. It wandered to the hollow of Silver's neck, the crease of his hip, his muscular back. Time and again he'd wondered if Miranda had drawn the little thief into her bed yet, whether she was riding him right now, whether his tongue was as talented at making her come as it was at saving him from trouble. On more than one occasion Flint had had to mentally chastise himself, lest Miss Bonny mistook the object of his lust and decided to take a knife to his offending parts.

At night, when it was Flint's turn to sleep, he lay staring up at the sky at the bottom of their little vessel and wondered whether Silver would stab him in the back. Whether he'd team up with Billy or Rackham and be gone from Nassau before Flint returned. But then he remembered that he'd left Silver in Miranda's capable hands. If someone could keep him in line, she would. As long as they didn't plot to leave together for Boston, of course…

That morning, Flint was keeping himself occupied, tracing maps, taking coordinates, marking the last place they had visited. He hated the idea of prolonging their journey further, but there were still a couple of islands that might hold some promise. Otherwise, they'd have to choose the option with the fewest drawbacks.

“We ain't done, are we?” Miss Bonny asked, her eyes following the movement of Flint's hands on the map.

“Not until we've found a place that we can defend properly.”

“Jack reckons you were in the Navy before,” Miss Bonny commented. Flint frowned at her, then thought better of it. At least she was talking.

“He wouldn't be wrong.”

“Then why the fuck would a nob like you become a pirate, anyway?”

Flint gave a shrug. “I'm far from noble. Just worked very hard to pretend that I was.”

She snorted, unimpressed. “Where you from?”

“Cornwall. My grandad was Irish.”

“So was I. Feels like a thousand years ago. Not even sure I can still speak the language.”

Flint looked up from his map, intrigued. She sounded like a Whitechapel urchin. It was true, what Miranda had told him, years ago. People took to the sea to forget their past, to be someone else.

“ _Cad as tú_?” Flint asked, old words awkwardly forming on his tongue. He hadn't spoken that language in decades, not since he'd prayed with old Darby as he lay on his deathbed.

She looked up at him, half-glaring, half-surprised. “ _Corcaigh_.” She thought this over a moment. “ _Is as Corcaigh mé_. That right?”

“As far as I know. I only have a smattering of it, mostly curses or prayers.”

“You never answered my question. How'd you get to be a pirate?”

Flint gave a sigh. “Because I realised I'd rather protect people from England's claws than further England's greed.”

She looked at him squarely in the eye, mouth twisting. “That's bull. How stupid d'you think I am?”

“Fine. The Navy and the powers in place treated me and my friends like shit, and I want to make them pay. I want to make a place where they can't touch us anymore.”

“Jesus,” she grunted.

“What about you? Why are you a pirate?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Cause Jack is one.” Flint raised his eyebrows at her. “Don't look at me like that. Been wondering about it for a while now. What else could I be, anyway? It's what I do.”

“You certainly have a talent for it.”

“Nah. Just a taste for killing bastards.”

“Why d'you want to kill the bastards?”

“For a girl I knew a long time ago. Just a kid, really.” She glared at him. “You know what men do to girls.”

“I know what men do to girls. I know what men do to boys, for that matter. I know what they do to poor people, and to sailors, to the old and the crippled. I know what they do to women who don't follow their conventions.” As the words left his lips, Flint felt them burn inside his heart. That was what he'd been fighting for, those were the things he'd hated as a young man, that he'd talked about passionately with Miranda and Thomas. He'd forgotten about these ideals along the way, blinded by his own schemes. “I want to make Nassau different from that. And that gold could help me do it.”

Miss Bonny stared at him in silence for a long while. “You're fucking nuts,” she murmured, but Flint thought that her tone sounded less dismissive than it had been before. He just shrugged, and told her where they were headed next.

* * *

 

They sped along quite fast in the little trap, certainly faster than Silver could ever have walked. Silver sat beside Miranda, thoughts racing. If a war was breaking out, he needed a way out. Cannons had gone off a second time since they'd left, but still nothing more than that. It sounded more like a warning than a war. Who could it be? Vane in the fort? The Navy, come to threaten them, to negotiate surrender?

And then, mingled with those rushing thoughts, was the fact that Miranda had practically entrusted Silver with her only means of leaving her isolated home. It horrified him to think how easy it would have been for him to take advantage of the situation. And Silver knew, deep down, that he would have. If it had been a choice between his life and betraying her, he would have chosen his life, he was certain of it.

About halfway to Nassau, they spied horses coming their way at a brisk trot. It was Miss Guthrie, apparently on her way to fetch them.

“A fucking Spanish warship tried to get into the bay,” she barked in lieu of a greeting, “with some Walrus crew on it.”

That, Silver hadn't been expecting. “Seriously?” he called out, as Miss Guthrie and her bodyguards turned their horses around. Miranda urged the old mare along so that they could trot beside Miss Guthrie.

“Mr Bones recognised them. It's a skeleton crew, about twenty.”

“There were over thirty men when we left!”

“Fucked if I know what happened to the rest.”

“What were the cannons about, then?”

“It's Charles. He won't let them in. Thinks Flint's behind it, trying to provoke him.”

“Maybe that's a good thing,” Silver said.

Miss Guthrie raised her eyebrows. “How's that?”

“The Walrus crew know where the gold is, and they might not be as, uh, cautious about keeping its location a secret as Flint and I were, or as particular about who they enrol to go and fetch it. Maybe this gives us a chance to get them back on side. And if we do, Flint will have a small crew _and_ a warship.”

For the longest while, Miss Guthrie just stared at him with a scowl. Out of the corner of his eye, Silver could see Miranda's face. She looked worried, a frown wrinkling her brow. Yet a small smile curled her lip, nearly sad, but also fond.

“And then what? Charles still won't let Flint in, specially not in a warship.”

“Vane's due to go and ransom that governor, isn't he? He'll have trouble doing that and protecting the fort at the same time.”

“He can keep the girl as long as he likes, though.”

“And Flint can hide the gold he's picked up as long as he likes. Then he can come back with the warship, take the fort or whatever insane plan he'll have cooked up, and be in control of all of Nassau's defences, which I think is the plan, isn't it?”

“When did that little sneak become Flint's right hand man, anyway?” Miss Guthrie asked Miranda after a moment of silence.

“Probably somewhere around St Augustine,” Miranda answered, and this time she was smirking.

Miss Guthrie snorted. “I shouldn't trust either of you.”

“What about Billy? Is he still going to support Flint?” Silver asked.

“Why wouldn't he?”

“Because, you see, he'll be reunited with his crew. His family. They like him, and he likes them back. And they all hate Flint. D'you see where the problem might be?”

A scowl crumpled Miss Guthrie's face. “Then you'd better convince Bones and that fucking crew to follow Flint again, hadn't you?”

“Oh right, yeah. Easy!” Silver called out as Miss Guthrie sped on back towards Nassau.

Miranda stopped the trap in the outskirts of Nassau – if they could be called that. The place was made up of rickety shacks, most of them abandoned, and a few tents. Silver didn't like leaving her there, where any low-life could get at her, but she shooed him away, assuring him she knew what she was doing.

When they finally got to the beach, they found Billy stalking up and down like a caged animal, his gaze riveted to the huge warship sitting in the bay. Silver was glad to note that one of Miss Guthrie's bodyguards was keeping an eye on Billy. He wasn't glad to note that there were dozens of onlookers crowding the beach, and that their attention was also focused on Billy.

The fucking warship was as huge as Silver remembered. They were just now striking Flint's colours, and raising the white flag. Silver couldn't help the delighted flutter in his stomach when he realised how desperate the crew was becoming.

“Have the Walrus men seen you?” Silver asked Billy by way of a greeting.

“I don't think so,” Billy answered. “They're signalling the Fort. Vane opened fire again when they tried to lower one of the longboats.”

“Fucking bastard,” Miss Guthrie grunted.

“And they've got holes in the hull,” Billy said, handing Silver a spyglass. “They've patched them up, but it looks like they took some serious damage. It's not from Vane, though. D'you think it happened during the battle with the Walrus?”

Silver looked through the spyglass and rather than examining the hull, had a good look at the deck. He made out DeGroot first, who was acting as helmsman, his face as dark as thunder. He was holding a spyglass, staring at the fort, apparently waiting for some sort of response. Silver recognised several more of the men – Randall, Howell, Joshua, Dooley, Muldoon, Joji. Conspicuously absent was Dufresne. Silver hoped he'd met a sticky end.

Then he looked lower. There was a large boarded up hole where two of the portholes had been. Silver didn't know much about ships, but it seemed like a cannon had shot into the hull at close range. “No, this is new,” he told Billy.

“So they got attacked on their way back here.”

“Looks like it. Well, we'd better get them to move to a better location, don't you think?”

Billy eyed Silver now, not without suspicion. “And then what?”

Silver beamed at him. “I recall you were given a task a few days back. This would be a perfect occasion to complete it.” It sounded a little obscure, but with the people listening in on their conversation, he couldn't risk mentioning Flint.

Billy glanced at the crowd around them, and lowered his voice. “I thought the crew wanted both of you hanged.”

“That was before they washed up here. Their perspective may have changed a little in the meantime.”

Getting the crew to move was easy. All it took was a mirror purchased by Miss Guthrie from a merchant's stall on the beach; Silver was certain she'd make Flint pay her back for it with interest. Billy signalled the crew by reflecting sunlight off the shiny surface, and once they caught sight of their old bosun, nothing could have stopped the Walrus crew from being reunited with him. Silver then made a crude banner – words scrawled in charcoal on a discarded piece of sail – to tell the crew where to meet them. He and Billy had agreed on Culverts Bay, south of the island. Once the message was received, the warship swiftly made its way out of the bay. Vane shot a last salvo at them, but they were far out of range.

Silver hoped that they'd been discreet enough, especially with the banner, to prevent people from seeing the name of the meeting point. He hoped that Miss Guthrie wasn't going to ruin everything by going to Vane and revealing more than she should in a fit of anger. He also hoped that the crew, and DeGroot in particular, wouldn't still be inclined to execute him.

“All right,” Silver said, stomach fluttering with nerves. “Let's join them. Miss Guthrie, with all due respect, I don't think you should follow us.”

Miss Guthrie glared down at him from atop her horse. “Am I supposed to trust the two of you?”

“Well, we can't force them to do anything with threats or bribes. If they decide Nassau is too dangerous for them, nothing could stop them from starting a new life in another port, if you see what I mean.” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “They'll listen to Billy, he's our best bet.”

Billy vibrated with nerves too. He'd seemed happy to see his old crew, and from what Silver had seen through the spyglass, the feeling was mutual. But Silver knew that the tension in Billy's shoulders wasn't only anticipation. It was hesitation. He was likely having second thoughts about Flint.

“Fine,” Miss Guthrie said. “But if I find out either of you have stabbed us in the back, you'll answer to me.” With that, she turned her horse and trotted back into Nassau, followed by her bodyguards.

“We should get horses,” Billy said.

“No need,” Silver replied. When Billy raised his eyebrows at him, Silver merely grinned. “I'm as eager as you are to get to them quickly. Just… trust me, all right.”

Billy rolled his eyes and huffed. He must have been entirely out of coin, or the argument would have lasted much longer. As it was, Billy just started to make their way through Nassau in long, steady strides; Silver had to practically run to keep up with him. Some onlookers nonchalantly tried to follow them, but gave up quickly, unable to follow at Billy's pace without making their interest obvious.

“Not far now,” Silver huffed.

“Not far 'til what?”

Just then, Silver spotted the trap. Miranda was gazing towards them; she gave Silver a smile.

“Til we can hitch a ride with a friend,” Silver said, trying not to sound too breathless.

Billy looked up, and stopped in his tracks. Silver nearly barrelled into his back. “Is that… is that Mrs Barlow?”

“Ah, so you know each other?”

“No, I just…” Billy seemed practically frightened.

“It's all right, Mr Bones, there will be no spells or curses today,” Miranda called out. Even at a distance she could probably see how rigid Billy had gone.

Billy flushed at her comment, and then looked down at his shirt and fastened it carefully where it had been gaping. Slowly, he moved towards the trap, smoothing down his waistcoat.

“Sorry Madam. I didn't expect to see you here,” he said, the image of politeness and propriety.

“That's quite all right, Mr Bones,” Miranda said, eyes twinkling with a touch of mischief. She turned to Silver. “Where are we going?”

“Culverts Bay,” Silver said. “D'you know where it is?”

“I do, but I'm not quite sure how to reach it.”

“I can tell you which road to take,” Billy mumbled.

“Good. Then climb up, Mr Bones. It's a tight fit but I think the trap will hold the three of us.”

Silver climbed up beside Miranda, who shifted to the edge of the seat to free up as much space as possible. Billy just stood there, flustered. He blinked, shook his head, and muttered something about borrowing a horse, then reluctantly took his place on the seat.

Cramped didn't begin to describe their little ride. Silver barely had enough room to move his elbows. Miranda's hip pressed into his. Billy's huge thigh was hot against Silver's, perhaps all the hotter for his embarrassment. It was as though Billy had never been in the company of a woman. Considering his dislike of the fuck tent, perhaps that wasn't entirely surprising, now that Silver thought about it.

“So, Billy,” Silver started. “Any idea what you'll say to get them to join in our little endeavour?”

“Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm not even sure I _should_ suggest they join Flint,” Billy said. “No offence, ma'am,” he added for Miranda.

“The greater good, remember?” Silver said, his stomach plummeting. “The gold, making Nassau safe from the Navy. Those men came back to Nassau because it's their home, right? Don't you think they can be swayed into wanting to protect it, like Flint does?”

“That's not the problem, is it? The problem's Flint and the way he treats people. Say we manage to secure the gold and somehow get the fort back. Who gets to decide what happens afterwards? Who organises it? Flint? Miss Guthrie? Everyone hates her, and I'm not sure I can sell the idea of Flint becoming the king of this place either. Cause that's his plan, you know? That's what he told me.”

Silver noticed Miranda rolling her eyes. “Believe you me Mr Bones,” she said, “I doubt James actually wants to hold that position for any length of time.”

“Can you promise me that?” Billy said. “Can you promise me that once he has the gold, it won't go to his head and we won't be saddled with a tyrant worse than the Navy itself?”

“Is that really how you see him?” Silver asked, curious and somehow offended by the idea.

“Perhaps 'king' was an unfortunate choice of words on his part,” Miranda said. “But if Nassau is to be independent from England or Spain or France, you will need to think about how it is governed and defended.”

“Well I agree with that,” Billy seemed to relax somewhat at Miranda's reasonable tone. “But the whole point of being a pirate is to evade the tyranny of ship captains and life in the Navy.”

“Then elect a ruler.”

Billy stared at her, dumbfounded. “You think Flint would allow that?”

“I'm rather sure he would. I can promise you that I'll do my utmost to persuade him to do it. I would rather he retired than became saddled with the responsibility of ruling this place.”

“Retired…” Billy rolled the word in his mouth pensively. “That letter you sent to Boston with a bribe to buy Flint's pardon–” Silver actually heard Miranda sigh. “What was that all about?”

“That, Mr Bones, was my attempt to save Captain Flint from what I believed would soon be a disastrous ending. I wanted him to start afresh. He was not aware of that plan.”

Billy shook his head and sighed. “I see.”

“I know that it caused you much hardship and grief.” She turned to Billy, her eyes soft and comforting. “I apologise for that. I didn't realise the consequences it would have.”

In anyone else, Silver would have thought this was a clever attempt at manipulation, but Miranda seemed completely sincere. And it worked. Billy relaxed further at her soothing tone. Perhaps there was _some_ manipulation there, all the same.

“Misunderstandings,” Billy said. “Misunderstandings, secrets, and people working at cross-purposes. That's what messed everything up. Most of this crew has known Flint for several years, but nobody knows anything about him. That's why they hate him, that's why we can't trust him.”

Miranda nodded. “I cannot tell James' story for him, but suffice it to say that there are things in this world that are unjust, and James has suffered for them. He has made it his mission to set these things right.”

“We've all suffered injustice, Mrs Barlow. Sometimes at Flint's own hands.” Billy gave a long sigh. “But we also need him if we want to make this place more than a pile of shacks that'll be razed the next time New Providence is under attack, I'll give you that.”

There was a long, thoughtful silence as the trap rattled on southward. Silver could practically hear Billy's mind at work. It was a fucking shame that their only hope to secure the crew was much cleverer than he first appeared. And without Miranda's help, Silver suspected that he wouldn't have been able to persuade Billy at all.

“Look, I'll back Flint as long as we're retrieving the treasure,” Billy said. “After that… after that, we'll vote to decide which role he's to play. I suppose the two of you have some kind of hold on him, yes?”

“Me?” Silver chuckled. “No, I'm just in this for the gold.”

“He has more sway than he thinks,” Miranda said, a small smirk curling her lip. “And James listens to me.”

“Right. Then you'd better keep him in line.”

By the time they arrived to Culverts Bay, the warship had already appeared in the distance. It wasn't long until it dropped anchor and a longboat carrying what seemed like the entirety of the crew arrived at the beach. Billy slid off the trap and strode toward DeGroot and Howell without a word. Silver was about to follow, but Miranda gripped his wrist.

“Not yet, dear,” she said. “Let him be reunited with them. You can't be seen breathing down his neck while he negotiates with them.”

Silver opened his mouth to argue, then closed it with a sigh. Not only was she right, but she'd called him “dear”. Nobody had ever called him that, at least not in earnest. Silver's heart swelled and squirmed all at once. He wanted to throw himself into her arms, and to throw himself off the trap and run deep into the forest.

Several crew members shook Billy's hand, slapped him on the shoulder, the boldest even embraced him. There was relief, a sort of bittersweet happiness on Billy's face. Silver heard bits of their conversation, mainly Billy explaining how he'd survived. Miranda's fingers tightened around Silver's wrist when DeGroot asked Billy what had happened with Flint on the night Billy had nearly drowned.

“I slipped,” Billy said. “I was fixing the rigging, the ship jerked, and I lost my footing. Flint grabbed me but I don't think he was strong enough to pull me up.”

There was a murmur amongst the men, surprise and puzzlement etched on their faces as they were forced to rethink their opinion of Flint. Then Silver saw Dufresne. He was pale and sweaty, his eyes sunken. His right arm was bandaged and held in a scarf. Silver was somewhat disappointed that this pain in the arse was still around, and even more when Dufresne said something to Billy, in a voice too quiet for Silver to hear.

“Look, I'll be straight with you,” Billy said. “I knew about the stolen page too, and I played along with Flint and with Mr Gates. We decided that we could take the risk of trusting Silver, seeing as we didn't have any other option. And it paid off, didn't it? The information was accurate.”

The crew grumbled their grudging assent. They looked exhausted, much too exhausted to argue.

“And I know about Gates,” Billy continued. “Flint told me about it himself. He's back in Nassau.”

“What? How?” snarled Dufresne.

“That's my cue,” Silver told Miranda. She let him go. He swallowed hard and let the crew see him, though he stayed far enough from them to ensure his escape into the jungle that bordered the beach if anything went awry. “Well that's down to me, Mr Dufresne.”

Silver was greeted by a frowning crew, downturned mouths, hard distrustful eyes. He was going to have to be very, very persuasive.

“Told you he'd be hanging around somewhere,” DeGroot rumbled. “We saw him with Billy on the beach.”

“How on earth did you two survive?” asked Howell.

“And why didn't you get the fucking warship for us like you promised?” Muldoon called out.

“Flint tried his best, but he was wounded, remember? He swam out and nearly drowned. By the time I got him out we'd drifted too far up the coast to get back to you.” The last part was a lie, but nobody questioned it. “We managed to walk to St Augustine, then stole a boat, and got back here,” Silver said with a shrug, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Now Flint's preparing to go fetch that gold and I bet he'd be happy if you joined him.”

“Over my dead body,” Dufresne spat. Considering his clammy grey complexion, Silver suspected that might not take long.

“Look,” said Billy. “I know we all more or less hate Flint. He's a manipulative bastard. But one thing he's got right is that we need that gold in Nassau. Not just to spend, though I'm pretty sure we'll all have plenty to spend, but also to invest in weapons and ships to keep Nassau safe.”

“And why would we need to do that?” asked DeGroot.

“Cause the Navy's coming. Those men who captured me? They wanted Flint. And they want Flint because, like it or not, Flint is the only one on this fucking island who actually wants to defend it and make it a home for us. A safe place. And he's the only one who's got the Navy afraid, because they think he might be able to do it.”

The murmurs amongst the crew became more irritable. Silver caught angry glances, directed at him, but also at Dufresne.

“Why's the warship so badly damaged?” Silver asked in his most innocent tone, and exulted when Dufresne went even paler.

“We attempted to board a ship and ran into some trouble,” DeGroot said curtly.

“They didn't take us seriously when they saw Flint wasn't with us,” said Dooley. Silver could have kissed that man.

“Look, it's nothing personal Mr Dufresne,” Muldoon said. “But you're not a Captain. Not like Flint is. He's a rotten bastard but he's never lost a fight, 'cept that last one with the warship.”

“We won't need to fight!” Dufresne burst out. “All we need is to restock, find some more crew, and get that gold off the beach! Then we can go to Jamaica and leave this fucking place behind!”

“And hope you don't encounter another Spanish warship on the way there, or on the way back,” Silver said with a smile. “And by the way, Flint might have won that fight with the warship, had he not been interrupted by your mutiny.”

“What else were we to do? He'd killed Mr Gates!” DeGroot shouted, flushing. Silver took note of that. Gates and DeGroot, who would have thought? It certainly explained why DeGroot had been so keen on shooting him dead before Randall had come to the rescue.

“Yes, yes he did. And Mr Gates betrayed him, didn't he? Because he thought Flint had killed Billy – when he patently had not.”

DeGroot crossed his arms. “And where is Flint right now? Why are _you_ his mouthpiece?”

“Flint knows that Vane holds the fort. Oh and by the way, if you try to bring the Spanish gold in, he'll ask you for a quarter of it – if he doesn't sink your ship first.” Silver gave the crew a moment to gasp and gripe that it was daylight robbery. “So Flint went out to look for a place to anchor a ship, somewhere away from Nassau, until we can resolve things with Vane. And funnily enough he's been looking for a crew and hasn't found one yet.” Silver gave a grin. “Things could work out for all of us.”

“We'll put it to a vote,” DeGroot said, glaring Silver down.

Silver went quiet, his body taut with nerves as DeGroot rather pompously talked to the crew about their options. Billy stood beside Silver, a slight frown on his face, as though he still wasn't sure Flint was the best option. Fuck, Silver didn't know what he'd do if the crew voted to stay with Dufresne. Run, most likely.

“Who here thinks Flint should be our captain?” DeGroot asked at last. Hands went up. Silver counted eight, then ten. He wasn't sure how many crew members there were, but it was certainly more than twenty. Then, slowly, more hands went up. Joji, who was raising his hand, elbowed DeGroot. He made a face and put his arm up with an oath.

“Fuck you,” Dufresne gasped, moving as though to leave the beach. A couple of men seemed to want to follow. Joji moved into their way, a hand on his sword.

“You're all staying here,” DeGroot boomed. “The gold's location needs to be kept secret. We've had enough loss as it is without being betrayed by our own.”

“And what are we supposed to eat? How are we supposed to tend to our wounds?” Dufresne cried.

“I can take care of that,” Silver said. Billy glanced down at him dubiously. Silver smiled at him, and nodded slightly towards the trap where Miranda awaited. “I know someone who'll be glad to help.”

“God save us, we're gonna have to put up with his cooking again,” Muldoon said. There was a smirk on his face, though. It was quite a friendly insult.

“For you, Mr Muldoon, I'll make sure the bacon is thrice-cooked,” Silver said with a little bow. A few crew members actually chuckled, and Silver thanked the heavens that they were this exhausted.

They let Silver go. When he turned around before joining Miranda, Silver saw Billy settling down with the crew, who seemed more relieved than angry now that they'd made a decision. As long as Billy didn't change his mind, they had a chance.

This could work. It would still take time and persuasion, but this could work. And if it did, Silver had actually won Flint a fucking warship. That thought alone filled Silver's belly with a pride, a bubbling happiness that he could barely explain.

* * *

 

They had it. They finally had it. When Flint had nearly given up hope, he and Miss Bonny had spotted the narrow entrance to a cove large and deep enough for the Walrus to anchor. Trees bordered the beach, making a perfect cover, and a bubbling river brought freshwater nearby. It would be easy to defend, and they could probably set up camp there for any length of time.

Night had fallen now as they sailed away from their find, making for Nassau as fast as they could. Stars peppered the sky, growing brighter as the night grew darker. Flint watched them, cold and faraway, but so infinite that he felt dizzy looking at them.

“How'd you know it was about Max?”

Miss Bonny's sudden question startled Flint out of his contemplation. “Beg y'pardon?”

“When I said I killed those men from my crew, you asked if it was about Max. How come?”

Flint gave a little sigh and picked up the oars to hurry them on. “Because she and Eleanor had a rather dramatic falling out.”

“Huh. Cause she chose you and the gold over Max.”

Flint glanced over at Miss Bonny. They hadn't spoken much since their last conversation, and now he was being met with probing questions about something they'd talked about three days ago. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

“Did you know they were fucking?” Miss Bonny asked.

“Most people did, didn't they? It wasn't exactly a secret.” He stared back at the stars. “But I wasn't aware it was more than that.”

“What d'you mean, more?”

He remembered their faces. Eleanor's distress, Max pleading. He'd had a hand in breaking that, in pushing Eleanor to choose him over her lover. It wasn't a terribly proud moment, even though Max had been scheming with Silver to sell the page.

“I mean, they were in a relationship. There were feelings involved.”

“D'you think it's possible? With two women?”

Flint fully turned to Miss Bonny, settling down on the bench opposite her. Miss Bonny sat curled up, her hat covering most of her face. Flint knew that stance, tense and vulnerable. He'd seen it in the mirror many a time before he'd met Thomas – and even a few times afterwards.

“I do,” Flint said quietly. “Don't you?”

She peered up at him from under her hat. “I dunno. Dunno if it's even possible to love anyone properly in this shithole of a place.”

Flint's face twisted at that, between a smile and a grimace. “Fair enough. But then it's because of the place, or the people, not because they're two women.”

“Church wouldn't agree with you,” Miss Bonny said. “Marriage's between a man and a woman, and all that shit.”

“Well, that's why a lot of us have fled to Nassau, where we don't need to worry as much about all that shit.”

“A lot of us,” Miss Bonny repeated. He thought she'd raised her eyebrows, but couldn't quite tell, with the hat. “What's that mean?”

Flint swallowed down the impulse to reveal himself further. “That most pirates live in so-called sin.”

“Like you do with your woman, the one you keep hidden away? I've seen her in Nassau, you know. She comes down to the docks sometimes when you're leaving. People say she shows her cunt to the ship to ward off the devil.”

A guffaw burst out of Flint's chest before he could stop it. He should have been angry that anyone would speak of her like that, but he also knew that Miranda would be endlessly amused by this piece of gossip. “Ah Christ, those men are dumb fucks.”

“Bloody right. They'd make up any story if it involved cunt and tits.” Miss Bonny glanced up at Flint. “Everyone thinks she's a witch, you know.”

“I know.” Flint couldn't help but smile. “She's not. Just clever and bold.”

“Men don't like women who're clever and bold,” Miss Bonny pointed out.

“I do.”

“You also like it up the arse, though.”

Flint nearly dropped his oar in shock. “What?”

“Overheard you once with your old friend Gates when were drunk. You talk more when you're drunk.”

Flint's face tingled as the blood rushed out of it. His first thought was that if he swung the oar fast enough, he might manage to overpower her and silence her for good. And then he shuddered at his own impulse, at the fact that he still felt the need to hide even though Thomas had encouraged him time and again not to be ashamed of what he was, of who he wanted. He shuddered at the fact that he would rather kill this woman than allow someone to ruin the reputation he'd built for himself in Nassau, a reputation that forced him to hide who he really was. His grip around the oar loosened.

“'S all right. Everyone else was drunk too. Wasn't even that obvious, what you said, but I got what you meant. Haven't told anyone, either.”

“Thanks,” Flint said, his voice shakier than he wanted it to be.

“You're not the only one, you know. Not that many blokes come out and admit it. Not even when it's their matelot or whatever. Fucking cowards.”

“Maybe we haven't left all the shit behind in England after all.”

“What's your woman think about it?”

“Oh, she knew the moment she saw me, I suspect.”

She gave a wry smile. “Clever, like you said.”

Flint couldn't help but smile fondly. God, but he missed Miranda. And perhaps she'd been right, perhaps he _should_ have taken her along with him rather than leave her on dry land. But it was so fucking dangerous… Flint's eyes fell on Miss Bonny's blade, and he was reminded of a quip Miranda had made a few days ago.

“Have you ever taught anyone how to fight?” he asked.

“Me? Who'd wanna learn with me?”

“Mrs Barlow wants to sail with me, and I want her to be able to hold her own. I've taught her a few things, but we never had enough time to really practice. And you probably know more than I do about how a woman can defend herself.”

Miss Bonny snorted. “Takes time to learn those things. And patience. Don't have much of that nowadays, and she don't look like the fighting sort.”

“Meet her at least. It might make it easier for you to come to a decision.” Flint fully trusted Miranda to be able to charm Miss Bonny into compliance, especially since it appeared Miss Bonny preferred the company of women rather than men.

“That mean you still want to work with me, after this?”

“I don't see why not. You'd be an asset to any crew.”

She raised her eyebrows, straightening somewhat from her stooped position. “Suppose that's something, then.”

They went quiet, the sea and stars calling Flint's mind again. This was the last of the silence, of the stillness, before he got back to the turmoil that was Nassau. He savoured it, even as he dipped his oar in the water and urged the periagua home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't wrong, I only have a Duolingo smattering of Irish Gaelic, but this is kinda basic... I hope.
> 
> Cad ás tú? - Where are you from?  
> Corcaigh. Is as Corcaigh mé - Cork. I'm from Cork


	7. Chapter 7

After some measure of coaxing and teasing, Miranda had finally managed to persuade John to climb into her bathtub. It was Sunday morning, and though Miranda knew that she wouldn't be going to church that week either, she certainly wouldn't give up her weekly bath ritual. Nor would she let John escape it.

They had spent the previous day on dusty roads, hurrying to bring food and water to the famished crew. Miranda had spent a good deal of time helping Mr Howell – not exactly a physician, but rather knowledgeable in his field – with the wounded. Mr Dufresne had glared at her all through his treatment, but that would do him no good at all. He had been shot through the arm, and the wound was rotting.

John had cooked for them, and despite a number of jokes about him attempting to poison them, the crew had eaten his stew ravenously. Miranda was glad that her cellar was well stocked with salt meats and potatoes.

“I'm really not sure what this is in aid of,” John mumbled, blissfully relaxed in the water, one leg flopped over the side of the tub. “We'll be sweaty and covered in dust again by this time tonight.”

“Consider it as a luxury,” Miranda told him, carding her fingers through his wet hair. It had taken a long while for her to untangle his mess of curls, and her comb had lost a few teeth in the process. “A moment that you can enjoy, away from your worries.”

“Bet you couldn't persuade Flint to do that.”

“You'd be very surprised by the things I can persuade James to do,” Miranda said with a smirk. Sometimes, she even managed to persuade him to get out of the tub before his fingers and toes were as wrinkled as a prune. James was more easily tempted by small luxuries than people might imagine.

“Actually, I wouldn't put anything past your persuasive abilities,” John said with a chuckle. “Do you know that at least three crew members asked me if you'd be back with me today? And Randall said you were a witch and that he liked you, which is a compliment. I think.”

Miranda finished rinsing soap out of John's curls. “Good. I think James did himself no favours by creating mystery around himself and around me.”

“Or the wrong sort of mystery. The sort that makes his crew feel threatened rather than reassured.” He grinned up at Miranda. “How many crews could boast having their own witch aboard to protect them?”

“You have a point.” Miranda pressed a kiss to the side of John's neck. His wet skin was an irresistible temptation.

“Do you think he's all right?” John asked. There was a practically childlike vulnerability underlying the question.

“James?” Miranda squeezed water out of John's curls. “I don't see why not. He's incredibly resilient.” And her tone wasn't as reassuring as she wanted it to be. It was silly. James had been away for weeks on end, and now she was worrying after three days.

“That's true. Although I sort of… I sent him out there with Miss Bonny, who seems to be quite volatile. And since he's pretty volatile too…”

“Then why did you send her with him?”

“To keep Max and Rackham in check. They wouldn't dare betray us while Anne is at sea with Flint.” John turned around, gave her a nervous smile. “Perhaps I didn't quite think every detail through.”

“Well then, let's hope James and Miss Bonny keep their tempers. Now come along, this hair needs oil.”

“Oil?” John pulled himself out of the tub and stretched, soaking the stone floor. Miranda enjoyed the sight, incongruous as it was in her kitchen. She herself was only wearing her shift, which was still damp with bathwater.

“Indeed. I've never seen curls so brittle.”

Miranda picked up a jar of olive oil James had brought back a while ago. They seldom cooked with it, but it had many uses – some medicinal, some much more erotic. Miranda also used it to soften her hair when it had been too long in the sun. She guided John into a chair and spread a dab of oil all through his curls. Soon she lost herself in the feel of his hair under her fingers, and John threw his head back with a soft sigh, half-smiling.

“There,” Miranda said. “Soon you'll be at your handsomest.”

“For the pleasure of your eyes?” John asked with a chuckle.

Miranda kept on massaging the oil into his curls, and weighed her next words carefully. “Of mine. Perhaps of your Captain's too.”

John's eyes opened. He glanced up at her, a nervous smile pulling at his lips. “What?”

“I had the feeling that you rather wanted to impress James,” Miranda said, trying to keep her words neutral. Tension subtly crawled into John's shoulders. Perhaps it was too soon to bring this up, but Miranda wasn't sure they'd ever have another occasion.

“Well, it can't hurt to get your Captain's approval,” John conceded.

Miranda moved her hands to John's tense neck, rubbing it soothingly. “When you were watching us fuck… I had a feeling that I was not the only one to draw your interest, John.”

He laughed nervously, his cheeks turning pink. “Ah. What can I say? The two of you certainly make a fine pair.”

“We both enjoyed being watched, you know?” Miranda murmured into his ear. “There was even some speculation as to what might happen if you were to join us.”

There was an entertaining succession of expressions on Mr Silver's face, starting with surprise, then uncertainty, until his blush darkened and he shook his head.

“I'm not… I don't really fuck with men unless it's business,” John said. His hardening cock was saying something else. Miranda pointedly focused her gaze on it, until he glanced down too and chuckled. “Fucking traitor.”

Miranda laughed softly and stroked along John's shoulders. “There is no shame in following your desires, you know.”

“I'm not ashamed, it's just– with Flint?” John shook his head. “The fantasy of it is alluring, but he's a dangerous man.”

“Is he?” Miranda asked with a smile.

“Have you seen him angry? Killing people?”

“It may surprise you to know that I have,” Miranda said. The first time she had witnessed James' rage had been on the journey to Nassau, when a sailor had been disrespectful to her. Miranda couldn't pretend that seeing James filled with fury hadn't been fascinating, hadn't inspired her to help him put it to good use.

“And he still doesn't frighten you?”

“Not in the least.” Miranda smiled, pressing a kiss to John's temple. “You see, James–”

Miranda started when she saw a face staring at her through the window. She instantly straightened, heart hammering, fright giving way to anger when she recognised the man looking into her home.

“Who the fuck is that?” Silver hissed as Pastor Lambrick stepped back from the window and off the porch, his face twisted with shock.

“The local pastor. I never should have fucked him.”

John scrambled for his trousers and shirt while Miranda wrapped herself in her dressing gown. She had expected the Pastor to come by and attempt to chastise her after mass, but had never imagined he'd be so bold as to come and visit her early in the morning.

Pastor Lambrick was stiff with rage when Miranda stepped out of her house. She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him coolly, standing on her porch. He had the good sense not to step forward.

“So it's true,” the Pastor burst out. “You harbour yet another criminal here.”

“One of James' friends is staying with us, if that is what you mean,” Miranda replied dryly.

“A pirate,” Pastor Lambrick breathed. “I thought you were seeking a new beginning, far from this world of sin, far from these men who tempt you into corruption. Why are you still here? Has Captain Flint returned to threaten you?”

Miranda gave a sigh. “Pastor, I am truly grateful for your concern, but Captain Flint does not represent any sort of danger to me.”

“Madam, I beg of you, stop defending him! I would hardly be surprised if this man,” he now gestured towards John, “is staying with you at Captain Flint's behest, and taking advantage of you–”

John snorted with laughter. Miranda elbowed him discreetly, but found it hard to fight the smile that curved her lips.

“Please, Pastor Lambrick. Nobody here is taking advantage of me, or holding me here against my will. Your chivalry honours you, but I do not need to be rescued.”

“Oh but you do, Mrs Barlow. Your soul is in dire need of saving. I fear it has been so corrupted that you are unable to know what is proper and what is not, what is moral and what is not. Look at you, standing there in immodest dress without a care in the world, moments after fornicating with that wretch!”

Pastor Lambrick was turning red in the face, tears shining in his eyes now. Jealousy. He was consumed with jealousy, and with the impossible dream that she would ever be his, that she would ever follow him into his narrow-minded flock and live out her days as a nun and a penitent. Miranda would rather die.

“Leave my premises, Pastor,” she told him. “What happens to my soul is between me and God.”

“I am His emissary!” the Pastor howled, tears now rolling down his bright-red cheeks, spittle staining his mouth, but Miranda barely heard him. A dark shape passing the gates of her farm had caught her eye. “I am a scholar of God's law, and I am His voice in this mortal world. And you, you have tried to undermine my position.”

Miranda moved her gaze back to Pastor Lambrick. She had already been accused of this by those who had enjoyed being led astray but wouldn't accept any responsibility for the consequences. Perhaps she should take pity on him, but Miranda had heard this speech once too many. She said nothing, and let him rant.

“My own soul is tainted now because of you. You seduced me, tempted me into sin, handed me that poison apple like Eve did to Adam, damning all of mankind!”

Beside Miranda, John's breathing grew a little heavier. James was close behind the Pastor now, quiet as a shadow, dressed in his dark tunic. His turban covered most of his face, but his eyes glittered when he met Miranda's. Pastor Lambrick hadn't noticed a thing, shaking with rage in her yard.

“Perhaps Adam should have had the strength of character to admit to his own failings, Pastor, rather than pinning the fault on his wife.”

James' voice was low and calm, but Miranda made out every word. Pastor Lambrick whirled around, turning ashen as he found himself faced with James' sharp features. For the longest time he stood there rigidly, inches away from James, like a mouse under a snake's gaze. Strange, Miranda thought. The pastor was several inches taller than James, but appeared small, nearly insubstantial, beside him.

“It's time you left, don't you think?” James's fingers played with the knife in his belt, unsheathing it just enough to make its blade gleam in the sunlight.

Pastor Lambrick lurched away from James, stumbling over his own legs, only just regaining his balance at the last moment before he fled from the yard, graceless as a swan trying to take flight. James watched him go, then removed the fold of cloth that concealed his mouth. He smiled at Miranda.

“Did you really lead him astray?” he asked with a wicked twinkle to his eyes, even as Miranda strode down the porch stairs to greet him.

“Hush.” Miranda pulled at James' tunic to draw his lips to hers. He wrapped an arm around her waist as he kissed her, his lips dry but his mouth burning hot. Miranda lost herself in the kiss, in the sudden feeling that he was _there_ , not just present physically, but actually with her in that moment. This was new, and it was good.

“I think he pissed himself,” James said with a smirk, once Miranda released him.

“Stop it, James,” she said, holding back laughter and excitement and happiness bubbling inside of her. “We were cruel to him.”

“What do you think, Mr Silver?” James asked, looking up at John, who had been watching them with soft, fascinated eyes. Under James' gaze he practically squirmed where he stood, and suddenly seemed not to know what to do with his hands. He shifted them awkwardly to rest on his belt, then changed his mind and crossed them over his chest. “Was it cruel, or deserved?”

“Some of the things he said were pretty vile, Captain. Entirely deserved.”

“He was just jealous because he caught us bathing in the kitchen,” Miranda told James, taking his arm and leading him inside. She saw the horrified look on John's face at her casual mention of their intimacy. James just gave a grunt.

“I don't see how that would be any of his business.” John practically sagged with relief at James' calm tone. “Hope he's learned a lesson.”

“I rather think he has,” Miranda said, putting water on to boil.

“So Captain, have you found a place to anchor?” John asked as James rid himself of his sword belt.

“I have. Have you and Billy got any further in finding us a crew?”

John's smile lit up the room. He even stood a little taller. James glanced at Miranda, raising an eyebrow, and she grinned back at him.

“Well, I managed to broker a deal with Rackham, who's only too happy to assist in retrieving the Urca gold. Of course, he doesn't know where it is, so he and his crew will follow us. Or perhaps sail with us, given the circumstances.”

“Follow us?” James repeated slowly. “You secured a ship?”

“By a stroke of luck, a warship came into the bay. Spanish. Manned by about twenty Walrus men.”

James gaped. “They found their way back?”

“They did. And since Vane wouldn't let them into the bay, Billy and I recruited them. They voted yesterday to reinstate you as captain.”

For the longest while, James just stared at him. A thousand thoughts and more seemed to be racing through his mind. There was a scowl on his face, as though some part of him was angry not to have been a part of this success. Trust James to be angry when he was handed a ship and crew on a silver platter.

“In fact they're waiting for us,” Miranda said. “We need to get more food to them.”

“We? What part did you have in this?” James asked, his tone stern and irritated. In the background, Miranda clearly saw the bitter twist of John's mouth, disappointment written all over his face.

“Well I certainly wasn't going to let them starve, James. Mr Silver and I used some of my reserves, and I tended to the wounded.”

“And you weren't threatened? They weren't inappropriate with you?”

Miranda chuckled. “No, they were very courteous, actually.” James narrowed his eyes at her. “For pirates. Their language is uncouth but they try their best to be gracious.”

“Jesus Christ,” James groaned. He shook his head, his mind still clearly abuzz. “Fine, then. If they're waiting for us, let's not make them wait.”

* * *

 

For what felt like the millionth time, though it was only the sixth within the last twenty-four hours, Silver was sitting on the trap again. This time he was the one dangling dangerously at the edge, Miranda beside him, Flint on the other side of her, silent and haughty.

Well what the fuck should Silver have expected, really? Flint had shown nothing but disdain every time Silver had saved his life. Why Silver had hoped that this would be any different was beyond him. And yet he had, and now a dull ache burned in his chest, a smouldering pit of anger and dejection.

Perhaps Flint's mood wasn't really about the warship and Walrus men at all. Perhaps it was because Silver had fucked Miranda, and in spite of everything Flint had said, there was still jealousy there. It was one thing for Flint to taunt Silver with suggestions of what Miranda may do, but perhaps it was another for him to see them realised.

Silver reminded himself that it didn't matter. They'd get the gold, and he'd leave. That had always been the plan. If Flint didn't care for his presence, leaving would be all the easier. Of course, it would be easier still if the mere thought of leaving didn't make Silver's chest ache until he was robbed of his very breath.

It would also have been easier if Miranda hadn't taunted Silver with what he both hoped for and dreaded, that Flint _was_ somewhat interested in his company. The revelation had filled him with terror and want all at once, with the fantasies of Flint's lips on his, those hands all over Silver's body, as hot and demanding as Flint's temper.

Miranda was wrong, though, wasn't she? There was nothing there, or at least nothing of substance. If Flint had taken an interest in him, it was shallow and fleeting. Silver was used to it, he usually welcomed it. It was better like that, wasn't it? To be unremarkable and at liberty to disappear unnoticed into the night when the time came.

These thoughts were interrupted by Miranda's hand lightly landing over his and squeezing. The gesture filled Silver with a strange sort of comfort, a relief that nearly brought emotions to the surface. He ducked his head, and took his hand away. The last thing he wanted was to get emotional in front of Flint.

“Oi, Silver!” Logan called out the moment Silver caught sight of the Walrus crew. He'd walked down to the beach ahead of Flint and Miranda, mulling over how to best kindle the crew's enthusiasm for their returning captain. “Isn't Mrs Barlow with you?”

“Hello to you too, Mr Logan,” Silver couldn't help but say, a grin plastered to his face to soften the sharpness of his remark. “She's right behind me, getting supplies.” He put down his own crate of food on the beach.

“It's not right, making a lady carry supplies.” This was Muldoon. “Me old mum would've smacked me 'round the head if I'd tried that.”

“Don't worry, Mrs Barlow's got all the help she needs,” Silver said, keeping his expression amiable. He hadn't exactly expected Miranda to be the focus of the crew's attention, but maybe that was naive of him. She'd charmed him easily, after all, so it made sense she'd leave an impression on them. “Captain Flint is with her.”

The men quietened down instantly at the mention of Flint's name. Sour expressions marred several faces, not least DeGroot's, who was sitting beside Dufresne. Dufresne looked paler and sweatier than the previous day; his eyes grew beady and hard behind his round glasses at the prospect of seeing Flint.

“Has he found a place for us to anchor?” Billy asked.

“He has indeed,” Silver said with a grin. “A place he deems secret enough to hide even that huge fucking monster of a ship.”

“And when are we due to leave?” DeGroot asked. A chorus of tired groans started up around him.

“Nothing's set yet,” Silver said quickly, intent on keeping spirits up. “As soon as we can, surely, but the crew has to be fit enough to travel. You've been quite long on short rations and little sleep, haven't you?”

Flint was behind him. Silver knew it, not by the way the crew went quiet and still as they caught sight of him, but by the tingle that went right down his spine. Flint wasn't only behind him, he was staring at him, Silver knew it.

There was a lot of polite nodding, even a few bows, as Miranda descended amongst the men. She smiled graciously, while Flint cast angry glances at everyone. And the focus of his ire seemed to be nobody else than Silver himself. Shit.

“Captain Flint,” Dufresne said, his tone low and grudging. He moved towards Flint, a stagger more than a walk. “The crew has voted you back into power, but make no mistake: they voted for you out of sheer desperation. One step out of line–”

“I know the stakes, Mr Dufresne,” Flint said, his voice quiet, his glare enough to make Dufresne's mouth snap closed instantly. He turned to the crew. “I know that you have been through hardships and that there is much that we have lost. I promise you, though, that this will not have been in vain. I will see you all rewarded.”

The men watched, silent, obviously enthralled by the rise and fall of Flint's voice. He had a way with big speeches. Even if they didn't like him – it was written on some faces – they still listened. Silver nearly envied Flint that authority.

“To regain the gold, we need two things: the first is absolute secrecy. We cannot have any contact with Nassau before the gold is in our possession. The second thing is speed. It's been three weeks now, and the Spaniards are going to come looking for it. We have to go out within the next couple of days or it will be lost to us forever. Do you think you can manage that?”

The grunts from the crew, even if they sounded like agreement, weren't very enthusiastic.

“In the meantime,” Silver said, “we'll make sure you're well taken care of. We'll have food and drink for you, and we'll make sure your wounds are well tended, won't we Mrs Barlow?”

“Indeed.” There was mischief in her eyes as they ran over Flint – who stood rigid and aggravated – and then to Silver. Silver wasn't quite sure what she found so amusing.

“Now I need to take a look at the ship,” Flint told Mr DeGroot. “Take stock, get organised.”

It was strange, really, how it was assumed that Silver would go wherever Flint went. DeGroot just gestured at him and Silver went along with them to the longboat. Flint cast a worried gaze towards Miranda, but found that Billy was keeping watch. Randall was saying something about witches, and her eyes twinkled with amusement.

The warship was even more impressive from the inside. Silver had thought the Walrus quite big, but this one dwarfed it entirely. He just followed the group gazing in wonder, while Flint bickered with DeGroot about repairing the hull, took stock of the cannons, and went over a number of technical things Silver barely comprehended. Dufresne had followed along, sullen and sickly, weakly trying to play his part as Quartermaster.

When they arrived in the Captain's cabin, Silver couldn't help but feel his greedy hands twitch. So many lovely things – so many small, portable things that could be sold for a nice price. He fought the urge to skim something off the desk, reminding himself that there was more at stake and that one step out of line would mean Dufresne breathing down his neck.

Flint had stopped in a corner, and was slowly unfolding a long black leather coat cut in a fashion that Silver had only ever seen on Spaniards. The strangest ripple of pleasure went through Silver when Flint pulled it on. It was perfect on him – its dark colour and harsh lines both menacing and powerful. Flint's eyes looked all the more piercing, his beard all the redder, and Silver couldn't help the heaviness that filled his cock. Christ.

“Oh no you don't!” Dufresne snapped when he saw Flint. “We took this ship without your help, and all of its contents belongs to the crew. We'll take stock of it and sell it off at the first occasion.”

Flint merely looked at Dufresne with his most bored expression and raised his eyebrows at him. This seemed to rile Dufresne up even more, and sent shivers of glee down Silver's spine.

“If that's how you feel, Mr Dufresne,” Flint said, moving to pull off the coat.

“Perhaps we could think about this, though.” Silver heard his voice coming out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. The sight of Flint in that coat had apparently driven him insane.

“What is there to think about, Mr Silver?” DeGroot asked gruffly.

“Well, I recall the men saying that you suffered quite a defeat because the ship you tried to take didn't fear Mr Dufresne like they did Captain Flint.” On the edge of his vision, Silver saw Flint raise his eyebrows.

“What of it?” Dufresne growled.

“It seems to me that looking the part is essential to sowing fear in the heart of the enemy, yes? And, well…” _Have you seen him?_ Silver wanted to say. _Have you seen how beautiful and terrifying he is in these clothes?_ He swallowed those words, and chose more cautious ones. “I'd say that this coat definitely makes whoever's wearing it look the part of the dread pirate. Perhaps it would be a good idea for the Captain to have it – not for himself, you understand, but as a part of the ship's equipment.”

Dufresne stared at Silver as though he were looking at a madman. Silver felt Flint's gaze on him, cool and appraising, and wondered if his argument had made any sense of if he'd just made himself look like the most ridiculous of sycophants.

“I suppose the idea has some merit,” said DeGroot. “What do you think, Mr Dufresne?”

“That I doubt wearing that coat would have given me any more credibility, had I gone onboard that ship wearing it.” Dufresne sighed. “But I suppose he has a point about it being a useful piece of equipment for the ship.” He glared at Flint, and added grudgingly: “And its Captain. But it stays here.”

Flint gave a derisive snort and set the coat aside. There was something practically obscene about seeing him pull it off – or perhaps Silver's mind had turned obscene. It was most likely the latter, aided and abetted by Miranda's suggestions.

Silver followed along again, adrift in a feeling of unreality. Had he truly argued with Dufresne over a coat? Because he thought Flint was irresistibly desirable in said coat? And now Flint's face was closed and hard, unreadable, and Silver couldn't help but feel that he'd somehow alienated him in his attempt to do him a favour.

Silver was back on shore – barely remembering how he'd got there, so lost had he been in the fog of his embarrassment – and bent over the cooking pot when Flint next approached him. The crew was further away, drinking from a cask of rum they'd brought back from the warship and making somewhat polite conversation with Miranda while she treated one of them.

“What the fuck d'you think you're doing?” Flint snarled.

“Uh… making stew?” Silver returned, though he was quite sure this was about the coat rather than the food.

“Why the fuck are you addressing the crew in my name and interceding in my favour with Dufresne?”

“I… well what else should I be doing? We want them back on side, don't we?”

Flint came closer, dangerously close; Silver was glad for the boiling pot keeping them apart. He couldn't help but remember Flint pressing him up against those rocks in the wrecks, the horror of being caught mingling with an insane thrill of trepidation. It seemed that his insanity had grown steadily in the past few weeks. Danger had never seemed to desirable.

“I can fight my own battles, Mr Silver,” Flint hissed.

“Well I'm sorry, but I don't think you can.” At Flint's sharp glare, Silver raised a hand. “Not all of them. See, the crew will listen to you in battles, they'll trust you to be strong, to help them defeat your enemies. But for the other stuff? They'll listen to someone they actually _like_.”

Flint's eyes narrowed. “And that person's you?”

“You might have noticed they rather appreciate the food and the treatment Miranda and I have striven to bring them. They need comfort and reassurance right now, and that's where we come in. When we need someone to terrify enemies and crew alike, you'll be sure to shine.”

At the shocked look on Flint's face, Silver realised he'd gone too far. He was speaking the truth for once in his wretched life, made bold and honest by the insanity that was slowly taking over him when it came to Flint. He shuddered at the thought there would be hell to pay for it.

“Is that how they see me then? The villain who'll lead them to victory? The callous monster who only knows war?”

Silver's mouth dropped open. He'd expected to be insulted, reprimanded, anything but these words bitter with self-loathing. Anything but Flint suddenly revealing a gaping hole in his armour.

“Look – even if they do, it's something we can change together,” Silver said quickly. “It might take time and effort, given what happened with Mr Gates,” he instantly regretted speaking that name at the pain that twisted Flint's face, “but we'll get there, Captain. I'm sure we will.”

“And you?” Flint said, as though none of Silver's words had reached him at all. “Is that also what you think of me?”

“What I think of you truly doesn't matter,” Silver said, feeling a terrible grin strain his face. He couldn't have spoken the truth about what he thought of Flint even under the direst torture. He himself had no idea what the truth was.

“It does,” Flint said, his tone losing some of its previous intensity, his voice going quiet, nearly tired. “If we're stuck working together, I might as well know.”

Silver snorted, and found the only truth amongst all his thoughts about Flint that he could speak out loud. “Fine. I don't know it you're a villain, but you're definitely an ungrateful arsehole.”

Flint blinked in surprise. Then a smirk slowly curled Flint's lips; it filled Silver with the irresistible urge to kiss him. Flint drew back from his threatening stance, his eyes much softer despite a contemptuous sneer. “Well then I suppose we make a fine pair, since you're an unbearable shit.”

“Yes, I suppose we do,” Silver said, his grin loosening into something warm and unexpectedly genuine.

A pair. He hated himself for how much he liked this idea. He hated himself for how easy it was for him to accept the lie that Flint would ever consider him to be a partner. And yet, as he went back to his pot, and Flint went back to terrorising the crew, Silver couldn't help but bask in the warmth of that word.

* * *

 

Maybe there had been a little more rum than usual at dinner that night, after they returned from their many errands. It was Miranda's doing, but Flint hadn't stopped her from filling his empty cup again. If there was a time to be merry, this was probably it, after all.

They had a ship. They had a crew. He'd gone to made arrangements with Eleanor to get supplies for Culverts bay – including a discreet girl or two for a fuck tent. The latter was Silver's idea, and while Flint had to admit it had merit. In fact, he had to admit that both Silver and Miranda seemed to know how to charm a crew into submission better than he could ever have done with threats and promises. He had to admit that Silver was a force to be reckoned with, whether he realised it or not.

Now they savoured this victory. Silver's eyes glistened in the firelight, and Miranda… Christ, Miranda looked vibrant and beautiful. Her dark eyes roved hungrily over the both of them, laughter cascaded from her lips as she recounted tales she'd heard from the crew that day. Silver beamed back at her, seemingly unaware of the adoration written all across his face.

“Are you all right?” Miranda asked, sliding closer to Flint, winding an arm around his neck. “You seem very preoccupied.”

“I'm fine,” Flint said, smiling up at her. Miranda ran her forefinger over his lips, down his chin, then leaned in for a kiss.

The world melted away for a moment under the hot touch of Miranda's lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling pleasantly at its roots, and it was all Flint could do not to moan into her mouth. Silver sat there, only a few steps away. Flint felt himself grow hard.

“Hm, better,” Miranda said as she broke the kiss. Her knuckles gently brushed his cheek. Flint saw Silver watching, eyes wide, mouth half-open; he averted his gaze when Flint caught his eye.

“Are we shy tonight, my sweet?” Miranda asked Silver, moving to sit on his knee. Flint looked on in awe as she pressed her mouth against his. Silver let himself get lost in the kiss, sucking at her lips, chasing her tongue with his. Flint swallowed hard, rising to leave the room before he revealed himself too much.

Miranda's hand wrapped around his wrist as he moved past her. “James,” she said softly. She was still perched on Silver's knee; he'd developed a deep pink blush. Flint supposed that his own cheeks had probably turned an ugly shade of crimson. “I want both of you tonight.”

Flint's mouth fell open, and noticed Silver's expression mirroring his. “Miranda…”

“I'm not sure…” Silver said, exactly at the same time as Flint spoke.

“It'll seal our partnership,” Miranda said, lacing her fingers through Silver's even as she gripped Flint's wrist. “Make the three of us stronger.”

The excuse was flimsy at best, but Flint's tongue had turned to lead. He wanted to argue, but the images drawn up by Miranda's suggestion crowded his mind. Silver didn't say anything further and let Miranda draw him out of his seat. She grinned, delighted; Flint could never refuse her now. Obediently, he let Miranda lead them to the bedroom. Silver glanced at him, nervousness etched in his every feature. Flint gave him a small smile, but felt no less petrified. Silver smiled back uncertainly.

“I'll need all four of your hands to get me out of this dress,” Miranda told them.

“As if you couldn't get out of one of these blindfolded and single-handed,” Flint growled into her ear, revelling in the way she shivered against him.

“I'm afraid you'll have to do without blindfolds for tonight, dear,” Miranda returned, pushing her arse against his hardening cock and drawing a surprised moan from him.

Silver, in the meantime, was dutifully unpinning her bodice from her gown. His hands were shaking, perhaps owing to the fact that Miranda had slid her fingers into his curls and was carding through them slowly. Flint's own fingers itched to do the same. Instead, the worked on Miranda's many hairpins, placing one after the other on the dresser, until her hair fell in dark cascades over her shoulders. He nuzzled there, enjoying the softness of her curls, the heat of her skin, the scent of her. How he'd missed her. It had only been a few days, but he ached for her now more than he had for years.

As Flint helped Silver remove Miranda's mantua, their fingers brushed together briefly. Silver snatched his hand away – or perhaps Flint had snatched his away first. The touch had gone straight to his cock, though, and Miranda rubbing herself against him only made him stiffen further. Then she pulled Silver closer, smothering his lips with hers. He let out a little moan, melting into her touch.

Flint let them kiss, choking on his own desire, watching her hands run over Silver's body, removing his waistcoat, sliding under his shirt. He pushed Miranda's hair aside, nibbling and kissing in turn at the soft flesh of her shoulder. His hands found their way to her petticoats, and Flint found that his fingers shook as much as Silver's had when he tried to unfasten them.

“So, which one of you is going to fuck me first?” Miranda asked when she finally broke away from Silver's lips. Then Miranda twisted to kiss Flint him even though he stood behind her, grasping his chin, lewdly sliding her tongue into his mouth. Flint fought to keep quiet, but couldn't quite hold back a grunt.

“Christ, you're going to kill us,” Silver gasped, his breath ragged. From the strain in his voice, Flint suspected that Miranda was fondling his cock.

“I've never killed a man that way,” Miranda said with a smirk, returning her attention to Silver's lips.

“That she'll admit,” Flint said, pushing the last of her petticoats off her hips. Silver's soft chuckle at his remark sent butterflies into Flint's stomach.

“Neither of you has answered my question,” Miranda said, breaking off from Silver's mouth. He was practically heaving for breath, lips slick and kiss-bruised. Christ, Flint longed for a taste of him.

“Captain Flint should go first. He's the one who's been deprived of your company for a the last few days.”

Silver's words made Flint blush, and he buried his face in the nape of Miranda's neck to keep his composure, glancing his teeth off the hard angles of her spine. Miranda shivered and pressed up harder against his cock in response.

“You may be right, Mr Silver,” Miranda said in the most conversational of tones, all the while reaching back to toy with Flint's cock through his breeches. “I do believe your Captain could do with some relief.”

“Christ, Miranda,” Flint growled at her, a warning, perhaps a plea. She only grew bolder, deftly unbuttoning his breeches. Flint gripped her hips through her chemise, feeling his face burn against her back. He could hear Silver's heavy breath, feel the sway of his body pushing Miranda's, like a wave rocking a ship.

It wasn't long before Miranda's hand closed over him, before her fingers teased at his head, squeezed the length of him. Flint choked down a moan, hips canting forward into her touch, more desperate than he had been for a decade.

“Huh, I _was_ right,” Silver murmured. His cheeky tone made Flint all the harder, sent a tremor of want all through him.

“Instead of making clever comments,” Flint managed to say in a cool, stern tone, “perhaps you should put your tongue to better use.”

Flint could have sworn that Silver blushed deeper, but his eyes glittered and his lips twitched with a smirk, masking his embarrassment. “Aye aye, Captain,” he said, and began moving his mouth down Miranda's throat, tracing a path of kisses as he lowered himself before her.

It wasn't long before Miranda was sighing and squirming, pushing herself into Silver's mouth. Flint couldn't help but mould himself into Miranda's back, gazing over her shoulders at Silver's mess of curls, at his concentrated face. A shiver went through Flint when Silver looked up, straight into his eyes, before making Miranda moan with a long, slow swipe of his tongue.

“Bed,” Miranda said as she quivered against Flint's chest, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. He sat down on the edge of the bed and she lowered herself onto his lap, unceremoniously sliding him inside of her, legs spread wide over his thighs. Flint had to muffle a moan as her silky heat wrapped around him.

Silver hadn't moved; he stared, breathless, somewhat taken aback. Then he crawled to them, not only between Miranda's thighs but between Flint's too, impossibly close and intimate. Flint thanked god that they were both still clothed. Silver's hot shoulders brushing against the inside of Flint's bare thighs as he licked and sucked at Miranda would have surely driven him mad.

Miranda worked herself up to climax, thrusting into Silver's face, grinding down on Flint's cock, moaning with abandon. Silver's hands ran over Miranda's thighs, and if they sometimes brushed against Flint's breeches, it was likely on accident. If Flint felt the tip of Silver's tongue on the base of his cock, that too must have been on accident. Or perhaps there had been no touch of Silver's tongue at all, only Flint's fevered imagination.

Nevertheless, Flint throbbed with mounting desire when Miranda clenched around him in ecstasy, a hand buried in Silver's curls, the other reaching back to dig into Flint's scalp. Flint wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close as she trembled with release. Silver sat back, watching with wide eyes, his lips still swollen and slick.

“You're wearing too many clothes,” Miranda gasped, tugging meaningfully at Flint's shirt. She slid off him, joining Silver on the floor and helping him undress. Flint didn't move, fascinated by the sight of Miranda, hair flowing down her back, chemise barely covering her thighs, pulling at Silver's shirt and trousers, discovering golden skin and smooth muscle.

It was only when Silver glanced towards Flint that he became aware of how exposed he was, sitting there with his cock jutting out of his breeches. He was still hard, slick, the tip of his cock a dark shade of pink. Even if Silver had already seen that particular part of him up close, that quick glance brought a renewed blush to Flint's cheeks, and to Silver's, who averted his gaze quickly. Flint turned away and pulled off his shirt.

But then Miranda was in Flint's lap again, her lips demanding, arms and thighs wrapping around him. He moaned into her mouth, revelling in the slide of her tongue over his, the slide of her clit along the length of his cock. He forgot Silver for a moment, his world narrowing to his body entwined and mingling with hers, the heat of her against him, her breath in his throat.

Then she shifted on his lap, reaching behind her. Silver had been removing her stays; both Flint and Silver helped her out of her chemise. Their hands brushing together unexpectedly sent shivers through Flint's spine, and the sight of Silver naked and fucking beautiful in the candlelight robbed him of breath as surely as Miranda’s kisses did.

Silver gave a breathy moan, and Flint understood then that Miranda had pulled him inside of her, that she was pushing back onto his cock, all the while drawing herself up on her knees and pressing her breasts into Flint's mouth. He worried at a nipple, laving it with his tongue, enjoying the strange press of bodies as Silver moved inside her, not in sharp thrusts but in long waves that made the three of them move into each other in an entrancing rhythm.

When the rhythm started to grow frantic Miranda interrupted Silver with a chuckle, her laughter buzzing all through her chest. She pushed Silver away gently, finding Flint's cock with her free hand and guiding him into her. Flint caught sight of Silver's cock; it was a work of art – long, shapely, perfectly curved. Flint couldn't help imagining how good it would feel in his hand or on his tongue–

“Not quite yet, dear,” Miranda murmured into his ear. Flint hadn't noticed how fast his hips were jerking up to meet hers, how shallow his breath had become. His balls were tight, his cock tingling even as Miranda moved off him.

Miranda drew them both on the bed, straddling Silver, showering his skin with kisses. Flint tried not to stare at them, at her soft skin and tumbling locks, at Silver's surprisingly large hands running over her hips, at the abandon on his face now that his guard was down. As Miranda rode Silver until she made herself come, Flint couldn't resist the urge to squeeze the head of his cock lightly, following their rhythm. Hopefully, the others had been too involved in their lovemaking to notice.

“James,” Miranda said, her voice thick with pleasure. “Get those breeches off.”

Silver chuckled tremulously from beneath her. “We're so completely under her thumb, aren't we?”

“In this house there is only one captain,” Flint said, unbuttoning his breeches and pulling them off. “And it isn't me.”

This drew more laughter from Silver, less nervous, more affectionate. Miranda bent to kiss him, rolling her hips in lazy circles. Flint's eye caught the place where Silver and Miranda were joined and the vision sent a jolt of pure want into his groin. He wanted to bury his face there, to lick and suck and nibble at his cock and her cunt until they both came undone.

He didn't, though. Silver had not shown any aversion to him, but he had made no clear invitation, either; they'd barely even touched, except on accident. Their alliance was tenuous enough as it was, without Flint adding to it the awkwardness of unwanted attentions.

“You could get the oil, James, while you're up,” Miranda said when Flint placed his breeches over a chair by her dresser.

“Uh…” Silver started, his voice weak and uncertain. Flint saw the way Silver's arse clenched, the sudden tension in his thighs, the hunch of his shoulders.

“It's for _me_ ,” Miranda told him, running her fingers through his curls soothingly.

“Oh.” Silver practically sagged back onto the mattress. Flint felt his mouth twist into a bittersweet smile as he searched for the oil in the dresser. Apparently his intuition about unwanted attentions had proved correct.

However, Silver didn't seem to mind when Flint settled between his spread legs, kneeling behind Miranda. There was barely any room at all, and Flint's calf rubbed against Silver's, their knees touched, no matter which way they shifted. Flint soon forgot about it when Miranda twisted around to kiss him hotly, all teeth and tongue. He pressed into her back, his cock following a path down the valley between her buttocks. He didn't quite mean for it to slide between Miranda's thighs, though, and especially not for it to butt against Silver's shaft. Silver let out a gasp and Flint pulled back, swallowing down an apology which would only have made the situation more embarrassing.

“I think you need a moment,” Miranda told Silver with a smirk, drawing off him and offering Flint her cunt. Flint sank into her, reaching around to stroke her clit, familiar with what she wanted, familiar with this scenario if it wasn't for the fact that Silver was gazing at them like a rabbit before a pair of wolves. Flint had been in Silver's place before, nervous and inexperienced where Miranda and Thomas were at ease and masterful. He put the thought out of his mind before more memories came flooding in.

Miranda came easily from his touch, writhing and heaving around his cock. Silver had grasped her breasts and was gazing up at her like a man gazes at a goddess. This too was familiar. It brought a smile to Flint's lips, a warmth into his chest.

“More?” he asked her teasingly.

“You know where I want you,” Miranda breathed.

“You're greedy,” Flint murmured in her ear, kissing the delicate shell.

“I've been starved too long,” she returned, squeezing him inside her.

Her reproach would have hurt under any other circumstance, but she sounded too joyful, too content, for it to have any impact. He noticed Silver watching them, wonder in his eyes. This too – Miranda's renewed happiness – was his doing. Silver seemed to be taking care of all of his troubles, one at a time. Flint ought to have been suspicious about it, but he couldn't bring himself to be, not now that they were all entangled in Miranda's bed.

Instead, Flint got to work, pulling out of Miranda and running a pair of oiled fingers into the cleft of her arse. While he worked on her in slow strokes, helping her open up, she guided Silver's hand between her thighs. Silver licked his lips as he pleasured her, his cock lying hard and heavy along his hipbone. It was a gorgeous sight, one that Flint knew would be etched in his mind, tormenting his every waking moment from now on.

It wasn't long before Miranda was ready, moving with his fingers, moaning with want. Her hands went to Silver's cock, toyed with his foreskin, stroked him back to full hardness. Flint was glad Silver couldn't see how his own cock twitched at the sight, how it pulsed with anticipation. Then Miranda slid Silver back into her cunt; Flint felt his cock fill her, felt her become impossibly tight around his fingers.

“Now, James,” Miranda gasped, and suddenly he was nervous. They hadn't done this in a decade, not with a third partner. He swallowed hard, and pressed the head of his oil-slicked cock to her opening.

Miranda moaned, gripping Silver's forearms and placing his hands against her breasts. Flint could barely breathe, squeezed so tight inside of her, sliding in inch by delicious inch with agonising slowness. Silver was watching – watching her, watching Flint, not daring to breathe or to move either. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, his mouth had fallen open in an awestruck expression. Flint pressed his forehead into Miranda's shoulder, kissing gently, waiting for her to relax.

There was a collective moan when Flint pulled out a little and thrust in again. Silver threw his head back and bit his lip the next time Flint pushed into Miranda. She merely gasped, her thighs trembling around Silver's waist, fingers digging into his arms. Flint set a slow rhythm at first, enjoying the tantalising squeeze of Miranda around him, the slide of Silver's cock inside her cunt. Its pressure against Flint's own cock was fucking glorious.

“Jesus… fuck!” Silver exclaimed, thrusting up deeper into Miranda; Flint fervently shared that sentiment. The pace increased, and the three of them got lost in the press of their bodies. Flint's hands shamelessly brushed over Silver's when he went to stroke Miranda's clit, when he reached for her breast, when he gripped her waist. As they moved faster, as the pace became somewhat erratic, Flint felt the base of his cock slide against Silver's more than once, felt their balls rub together. He buried his mouth in Miranda's shoulder, unable to look away as Silver slowly came undone.

“Christ, Miranda– stop,” Silver whined out. “Please, I'm going to–” He went still, teeth worrying his lower lip, and all Flint wanted was to make him come. He pushed forward inside Miranda relentlessly, knowing that his cock nudging Silver’s was an exquisite torture for him. Silver cried out, squirming beneath Miranda, fingers gripping the sheets.

Miranda was teetering on the edge, Flint could tell from the fluttering in her core, the tremble in her thighs. Flint turned his attention to her clit, rubbing in small circles, unable to stop thrusting faster and faster into her. She came hard, clenching over their cocks in spasms, filling the room with sounds of ecstasy. Still Flint couldn't stop pounding, breathless and lost in the sensation.

Silver twisted on the bed, desperate, nearly sobbing. He pulled out of Miranda abruptly, seed instantly bursting between his fingers, painting his belly in translucent ropes. That sight broke Flint; pleasure burst through him, zigzagging down his spine like a bolt of lighting. He heard himself cry out, saw stars darkening his vision. Then he was weak, sagging, gripping Miranda tight to keep his balance. When the fog finally lifted, he found her stroking his arm gently, and Silver lying beneath her with his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut.

They breathed together. Miranda's gasps were euphoric, warm, happy. Silver's breath came in trembling, nervous shudders. Flint's breathing was choppy as a stormy sea, practically painful for the tightness in his chest. Slowly, he drew out of Miranda and she slid limply down next to Silver on the bed. She pressed her face to his chest, smiling, finally content. Flint knelt on the mattress watching them, a faraway sort of happiness pulling at his lips. Only when he noticed Silver watching him through half-closed eyes did Flint move.

He went to the basin and cleaned himself up first, his legs still quivering, his knees threatening to buckle. Then he found more of rags, soaked them in water, and brought them to the pair on the bed. He cleaned up Miranda first, moving as gently as he could in the likely tender cleft of her arse. She sighed happily, spreading her thighs to help him.

Then Flint hesitated. Silver wasn't watching anymore, he'd moved to press his forehead against Miranda's. This gave Flint the courage he needed to reach the cool cloth to Silver's belly and slowly clean the spend off him. Silver looked up at him in surprise but made no move to resist. Flint blushed, tingling both with nerves and a strange sort of affection, and finished the task even though Silver never averted his soft, exhausted gaze.

Only when both Miranda and Silver were clean and comfortable did Flint allow himself to lay down against Miranda, wrapping an arm around her waist, pressing his cheek to her shoulder. And if his fingers reached beyond Miranda's belly and accidentally brushed Silver's stomach, if they drew gentle circles on his skin as sleep seeped into their bones, Flint was too sated to worry about the propriety of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you call it a slow burn when they do it together but also don't really do it together? I think you can! >:D
> 
> Thank you for reading my longer and longer and LONGER chapters! I am always so incredibly happy for comments on this piece which tbh is eating my soul and is a lot of hard work, even if I'm an awkward idiot who doesn't always know how to respond. <3 <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

Light was filtering into the room when Silver awoke. If he'd ever been under the sheets they'd now disappeared, rumpled in a ball somewhere on the bed, yet he wasn't cold. His legs tangled with Miranda's – perhaps even with Flint's. Miranda's forehead pressed into his shoulder, her hands nestled together against his chest. If Silver squinted, it nearly looked as though she'd fallen asleep praying. The incongruous image made him smile.

Flint's hand hung over Miranda's waist, all but trapped between Miranda's stomach and Silver's. A vivid memory suddenly pierced through the tendrils of sleep in Silver's foggy mind: Flint's unusually soft features as he rubbed a damp cloth over Silver's belly, as he settled beside Miranda, as he let his fingers stray on Silver's skin, strangely soothing. The tenderness of that moment had taken Silver by surprise, practically brought tears to his eyes. It stole his breath away even now.

So many things about Flint had taken Silver by surprise. The way he made love to Miranda, thoroughly, expertly, but always gentle, obeying her wishes rather than imposing his will. The look on his face when she kissed him, his hard mask gone, leaving place to someone who looked ages younger than Captain Flint, someone who had no interest in taking power for himself. Even with Silver, Flint had been awkward and quiet rather than forceful. Several times Silver had worried that Flint might push him away or berate him for his presence, that he might turn territorial with Miranda, or that he might demand of Silver things that he wasn't ready to offer. That moment had never come.

Instead there had been half-smiles, and tentative humour, and soft eyes, and his lips on Miranda's skin. Silver had envied her, had yearned to experience that touch. The brush of their hands, thrilling even in its clumsiness, had been enough to fill Silver with lust, let alone the sight of Flint naked and aroused. Silver hadn't been able to resist flicking his tongue at Flint's cock while Miranda rode him; the taste of his salt and musk still lingered on his lips, a memory more than a true sensation. And when they'd both been inside Miranda, feeling each other move, squeezed close together, Christ…

Flint had known how much it drove Silver wild. He must have, yet he'd taken no heed of Silver's begging to stop and had forged on, pushing him to the very edge. Silver wasn't certain what to think of that. A cynical part of him believed that Flint _had_ been trying to assert his power over Silver after all, to humiliate him, to show him who was in control. But that didn't seem quite right. Flint had been coming undone himself, his lips twitching, his face contorting. Perhaps he'd just been unable to stop himself. Perhaps it had felt as good to him as it had to Silver.

Silver's cock, which had already been half-hard when Silver had awoken, was swelling and stiffening further against Miranda's belly. And, Silver realised, it was reaching dangerously towards where Flint's fingers rested. He shifted a little, discreetly so as not to wake anyone up and draw attention to himself, but terrified at how Flint might react if he felt _that_ under his fingers. The last thing he wanted to see on Flint's face was anger or disgust.

Perhaps Flint perceived his movement, because he gave a grunt and rolled over. Silver thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest at Flint's sudden stirring, and went still as a statue, closing his eyes, swallowing on the hard knot in his throat. As minutes went by, Flint's breath turned to the mild drone of a snore. Silver glanced at him over Miranda's sleeping head and found Flint stretched out in all his freckled glory, exposing long planes of muscle and pale skin, and his half-hard cock.

Fuck. Fuck, Silver wanted him. He wanted to taste Flint's skin, to feel the heat of his mouth, the rub of his beard on his chin. He wanted Flint's lips all over him, the graze of his teeth, his breath on his skin. He longed to run his palms over his powerful body and feel freckles under his fingers, to be wrapped in Flint's arms, heavy and safe around him.

But that wasn't how men fucked.

Silver was well aware that men behaved differently with a woman they respected and with a pretty boy they used for their pleasure. The best Silver might expect, if Flint truly was interested – and there hadn't been a single moment the previous night where Flint had expressed that sort of interest – was to get his mouth or his arse fucked none too gently.

Silver screwed his eyes shut. He remembered all too clearly how unpleasant it was to be fucked, yet his treacherous cock had obviously forgotten. It twitched, leaking a bead of precum, eager for Flint, for any kind of touch, even roughness, even pain. God, this was fucking pathetic.

“Are you all right, John?” Miranda murmured against his skin. Her hand reached up to stroke along the back of his neck, and Silver wanted to weep, though he could barely understand why.

Flint's eyelashes fluttered, his features shifted into a somewhat sterner mask. He was awake. Silver was practically sure he saw Flint's eyes sweep towards him and Miranda under half-closed eyelids. Then he rolled over onto his other side, turning his back to them. Thank god.

“I just need the pot,” Silver mumbled, rolling away and sliding out of bed. He entirely ignored the chamber pot, picking his clothes off the floor instead. Before Miranda could say anything else, Silver was out of the room. He breathed a trembling sigh, a mixture of relief and frustration, as the door clicked shut.

* * *

 

“Well that puts to rest any thought that we'll be doing this again,” Flint grumbled as he heard Silver retreat into his room, a little faster than necessary.

Miranda turned over, her hands running down his back. “On the contrary, I think he enjoyed it more than he was prepared to admit. He'll come around soon enough.”

Flint glanced at her over his shoulder, his stomach fluttering with a strange sort of hope. “What makes you say that?”

“He was getting stiff as he watched you sleep.”

“You don't know that he was looking at me,” Flint said with a grunt, flipping onto his back again. His shoulder, though mostly healed, still nagged at him. The previous night's exertions probably hadn't helped.

“Have some faith in my judgement, James,” Miranda chided, sliding into his arms, pressing her warm breasts and belly against his side. “How often am I wrong about this sort of thing?”

Flint gave a shrug, but he couldn't argue with that. He'd never known anybody better than Miranda at understanding a person's desires and needs. It was uncanny, frightening sometimes, and he adored her for it. Slowly, he raised his hand and tangled his fingers in the hair at her temples.

“Well if he was interested, he certainly made no move to initiate anything last night.”

“Neither did you, if memory serves.” Her eyes glittered with amusement.

Flint squinted at her in annoyance. “I was too busy trying to keep up with you.”

Miranda laughed, low and throaty. How long had it been since she'd laughed like this? Perhaps not as long as Flint thought, but it seemed like centuries. Laughter was a rare occasion, reserved for days where they were both in good enough humour. There had been times where they could barely tolerate each other's presence, where every glance brought back memories, every comment set off the unbearable burn of grief. Every touch was a torture of bittersweet familiarity, a reminder of Thomas' absence.

When had it changed? _Why_ had it changed? Was it because Miranda was finally involved with the Walrus' affairs? Flint had never thought she'd enjoy being amongst a crew of rough, smelly men – or that she'd be so good at charming them. Or was she simply filled with hope again, now that the gold was within their reach and the end seemed near?

Whichever it was, Silver had made a difference. He'd somehow made Miranda indispensable to the crew. And he'd made himself indispensable to the crew too, and to Miranda, and to Flint. Funny, for a man who planned to run the moment he got his share, that he would create such bonds. Funny, and a little sad. Flint couldn't help but wonder what they'd do once he was gone, and the thought pained him more than he liked to admit.

Miranda gave a put-upon sigh. “The two of you are killjoys, this morning.”

“What? I haven't said anything.”

“I can see your face, dearest,” she said with a chuckle. “Your handsome, tragic face.” She kissed along his jaw, to his lips. He kissed her thoroughly, curling a hand around the nape of her neck.

“And him?”

“Drowning in the depths of his desperate lust for you.”

Flint snorted. “Right.”

“He was so hard against me this morning.” Miranda rolled onto Flint, trapping his half-hard cock between their bellies. “I could practically hear his heart race. He was even getting wet.”

And she knew perfectly well what effect her words would have on Flint's cock. It started filling, hot against his hip.

“He has a lovely cock, don't you think?” Miranda said, and all Flint could do was squeeze his eyes shut with a little groan. She trailed her nails down his chest and he squirmed beneath her touch. “How badly did you want to suck it?”

The surge of lust robbed Flint of speech as fantasies flooded his mind. It had been so long since he'd sucked another man's cock, and he'd never longed for the sensation more. All he could manage in response to Miranda's question was a deep moan, even as her fingers wrapped around him. He pulsed in her hand, fighting for breath as she coaxed him to full hardness.

“You're unbelievable,” he managed to gasp.

“He's incredibly talented with his mouth, you know?” she murmured into his ear, nuzzling him, sending pleasurable shivers down his spine.

“I noticed,” Flint growled. “For a moment, I…” He shook his head, the words dying on his tongue.

“Yes?” Miranda kissed his lips, down his throat, then applied her tongue to his nipple. The sound he made as pleasure bloomed from the sensitive nub was more desperate than dignified.

“I think I felt his tongue on me.” Or he wished he had. And now he was blushing under Miranda's knowing eyes, and his his hips were canting up as he thrust into her firm grip.

“On your cock?” she breathed onto his damp nipple, making it harden and tingle.

He pressed his forearm over his face, as though that would conceal his embarrassment, his irrepressible lust. “Yeah.”

She moved down his body, trailing her lips on his skin. Soon her tongue laved at the base of his cock, hot and wet, just beneath her fist. Flint bit back a moan, his whole body heaving with need.

“Like this?” she asked coyly.

“Fuck, Miranda,” he growled, only encouraging her to lick him again, while her fingers expertly squeezed at the head of his cock.

“Oh, I'm too sore to fuck, dear,” she crooned between licks. “The two of you felt amazing inside of me, but I am due a little rest.”

Flint let out a sound between a helpless moan and a chuckle as memories exploded into his head: his feverish thrusting, Silver's desperate moans. “Christ, you'll be the end of me.”

Miranda merely smirked and took him deep into her mouth; he fought hard to keep quiet, the sensation mingling with his memories of being inside her and feeling Silver match his thrusts. He tried to keep his hips still, feeling his thighs tremble as she moved over his cock, hot and wet, eyes twinkling wickedly.

“I thought I might faint from coming so hard,” Miranda said after pulling off for breath, licking at him in teasing strokes that shot fire up his spine.

“ _You_ thought you might faint?” Flint ground out. Her eyes met his, and she gave a knowing smirk. She was beautiful, sprawled over him, lips reddened and swollen. Flint's breath came in hitching gasps now, tension rising in his balls with every touch.

“If you're still this ardent after what we did last night, I wonder how Mr Silver is faring alone in his room.”

Once she'd planted that picture in Flint's mind, he was lost. He moaned aloud when she took him back into her mouth and barely had time for a stuttering warning before he came, spilling his seed between Miranda's lips.

He breathed, head thrown back on the pillow, dizzy with pleasure. Christ. It was Silver. He was there with them even when he'd left the room, driving him mad with lust.

The thought suddenly chilled Flint, sobering him like a bucket of water. He shifted onto his side, hunching into himself.

“James?” Miranda said with a sigh, laying down behind him and wrapping her arm around his shoulders.

“I'm sorry.” His voice trembled as emotion started to overcome him. The euphoria of climax often tore away the careful control he tried to keep over himself, the distance he tried to keep with his inner turmoil.

“Why?” Miranda asked, running her fingers through his hair.

“Every time I get aroused, every time I manage to finish, somehow Silver is involved.”

She snorted and shook her head. “James, truly. It isn't as though _I_ don't also find him gorgeous, and get aroused at the prospect of seeing him with you. We both want him. Why is it wrong that you do, when it's all right that I do?”

“Because of how I was before he came into the picture.” Disconnected, unable to let himself get past that point where pleasure turned to frenzy, and frenzy to ecstasy. “He's played such an essential part in all our recent encounters, but it's all temporary. He'll leave, at some point, and your disappointment then–”

“Hush.” Miranda kissed the back of his neck. “That time has yet to come, and there is much that we can do to retain him, if that's what you want.”

Flint didn't know what he wanted, except that the very thought of Silver leaving brought a tightness to his chest. “I suppose. If you say so.”

“I do say so. And now I have devised the perfect way to quieten your worries and keep you busy for a moment.”

With that, Miranda rolled him onto his back and straddled his head, smothering him in the scent of her arousal. Flint welcomed the distraction, just as she had expected, and let himself get lost in pleasuring her.

* * *

 

A few hours later they were back at the beach. Flint sat on a rock, surveying the horizon. Any minute now, the shipment of food and supplies – and more – was due to arrive, courtesy of Eleanor and with the collaboration of Max and Rackham. In the meantime, Silver babbled on at the crew, regaling them with the tale of their journey to St Augustine. He made the whole story sound particularly ridiculous and somewhat demeaning, but this only seemed to make him more popular.

Miranda sat to the side of the group, treating the wounded. Flint had been tempted to tell her not to bother with Dufresne, but sadly the man was still Quartermaster. After what had happened with Gates, Flint couldn't afford to be accused of killing off another Quartermaster. Besides, nature was taking its course. Howell mentioned amputation more and more frequently, and the longer Dufresne refused it, the closer they'd be to being rid of him.

Leaving his audience after one last guffaw, Silver strode towards Flint, a little smirk on his face. He was different, on the beach. He'd spent the morning relatively quiet, save some gentle banter with Miranda, but now he was back to being a con man, wrapping people around his little finger with cleverly chosen words.

“Well, they seem happy enough at the moment,” Silver said, settling down on the sand so that he was sitting opposite Flint. “Bet they'll be even happier when the whores arrive. And the supplies, so we can fix that hole. Wouldn't want them to get bored.”

Flint watched him quietly, perhaps a little too intently. Silver's face broke into a grin, both cheeky and somewhat uneasy. “What?”

“I was just wondering how you got so good at this. It's one thing to be good at conning someone, and quite another to be able to capture the attention of a whole crew.”

Silver's eyes lit up at Flint's words, his smile relaxing, turning more sincere. Christ, but he was beautiful when he was genuine. The thought hit Flint like a punch to the gut, stealing away his breath.

“Well, Captain, it's a funny story. See, I spent three years in St John's Home for Poor Orphan Boys, and during my stay I noticed this boy. Solomon Little was his name, I think I mentioned him already. Ugly kid – spotty, runty, terrible ears. Very much the sort of kid that gets beaten to a pulp every day. Except that he didn't. You see, he had a way with words…”

This was Silver's con-man patter. Flint had indeed already heard a few Solomon Little stories during the journey to St Augustine, each story as preposterous as the next. Why Silver was intent on lying to him in a grandiose way rather than simply choosing to brush off the question was beyond him. And yet Flint listened, enjoying Silver's deep voice, the ebb and flow of his words sending thrills down his back.

“… and he used rumours, stories, observations, anything of interest truly, to draw the attention away from his, uh, unfortunate appearance. It worked. Poor sods like to be diverted. And as Solomon learned this, he also learned that poor sods will cling to the hope of comfort, the hope of riches. Not only that, but having someone take an interest in them made them feel valued.” He gave a wry smile. “And, if all else failed, his now extensive knowledge of everyone's little habits and secrets made it easy to turn them against each other.”

“And so you observed this boy, and learned from him?” Flint wasn't even sure why he was humouring Silver. This was likely to be Silver's own experience, made up into a story. And if it truly was his own experience, why did Silver seek to distance himself from it by making another character the protagonist?

“I learned a lot of things from him, yeah,” Silver answered with a smile. That was genuine – at least, it looked genuine.

“It's certainly a useful talent on a ship,” Flint said. “A crew's morale is one of the ficklest things. Mr Gates had a way with them, and so does Billy. But they listen to you, even though they barely know you and wanted to hang you not a two weeks ago.”

Silver squirmed somewhat under Flint's gaze, his cheeks colouring ever so slightly. Flint couldn't help but think he was flushing with pleasure, and suddenly his throat was parched. It had been a mistake for them both to join Miranda in bed. Flint was never going to get the picture of Silver in the throes of orgasm out of his head. He was never going to be able to look at those lips again without his breath stuttering, just as it was now.

Silver smirked, leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “I told you, Captain. My tongue never fails me.”

Flint didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or to roll his eyes. He snorted dismissively, desperately trying to forget the fleeting feel of that tongue on him. Surely, this was on purpose. Flint didn't know what Silver expected to achieve by getting him worked up at an entirely inappropriate time, but it wasn't the first time that a throwaway line had turned out to be suggestive.

“Captain?”

Billy's appearance, towering above the two of them, was both a welcome relief and an annoyance. “Yes, Mr Bones?”

“Looks like that shipment's arriving.” Billy nodded towards a small but heavily loaded vessel coming towards them. Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny were manning the ship, and three whores sat on the deck, chattering away. Flint had been too enthralled by Silver to even notice it.

“Don't tell me that's Charlotte!” one of the crewmen cried.

“Why, indeed it is!” Silver exclaimed with feigned surprise. “What a stroke of luck that your dear Charlotte would volunteer to come here, of all places.”

“I'll remember this, Mr Silver!” The man said with barely repressed emotion, before clapping Silver on the shoulder.

The man was Mr Logan, Flint thought, though he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps he should make sure to know everybody's names in the future. Silver's story, fake as it was, made a compelling point.

“Thank the Captain for allowing them to come. _That_ took some convincing,” Silver said with a grin.

Flint made sure to put on a solemn face when Logan turned to him. He knew this strategy. Two men with the same goal, one playing the opposer, the other playing the ally, could more easily manipulate a third one. Obviously, it was working.

“Thank you Captain! May I go help them disembark?”

“You may, Mr Logan,” Flint said. Thankfully, the man responded to the name with a grin, and hurried away.

“Ah, we'll make you into a popular Captain yet,” Silver said, nudging Flint's shoulder ever so slightly with his. It was all Flint could do not to grab him by the shirt and kiss him there and then. Why the fuck hadn't he behaved like this the previous night? Why was he quiet and fearful the moment they were in the intimacy of Miranda's house, and bold and flirtatious when they were out here?

Because this was a part Silver played. A way of getting Flint to play along with his schemes, to bend him to Silver's will. He flirted, he worked Flint up, he flattered and helped, but he didn't mean for it to actually become intimate. God knew Flint had played that game a couple of times, in his quest to find a better position in the Navy. It was a disappointing conclusion, but the only one that made sense.

Flint put Silver out of his mind and schooled his face into a stern one as Rackham – now Captain Rackham, god help them – and Miss Bonny strolled towards them. She slouched and kept a certain distance from Rackham, and his step was somewhat tense. Perhaps they weren't quite on the best of terms, yet.

“Ah, Captain Flint. It looks like you've made yourself quite cosy here.”

“I gather you've brought the supplies we need,” Flint said, loath to answer to meaningless chatter.

“Indeed I did. Everything you need for repairs, the food stocks for the voyage, and of course, the whores.” He grinned and doffed his hat.

“Good. See my quartermaster for the details then. If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Miss Bonny.”

Rackham seemed taken aback. “Right. Fine,” he muttered.

Silver shot Flint a quizzical and somewhat disapproving glance, certainly unhappy that Flint wasn't making any effort at being social. “Come along this way, Captain Rackham,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “They'll be delighted to see you.” He led Rackham away, his soft, charming tones trailing behind him.

“Why d'you ask for me to come?” Miss Bonny asked, shaking Flint out of his thoughts. She was scanning the beach warily, as though expecting an ambush.

“I wanted you to meet Mrs Barlow.” He nodded towards Miranda, who was wiping off her bloody hands on the apron she wisely brought with her to the beach.

Miss Bonny watched her, head tilted to the side. “Didn't say I agreed to teach her.”

“I know. But I'd still like you to meet her.”

Her grunt of assent was enough for Flint, he started walking towards Miranda. She was sitting beside Randall and a few other crew members, an amused smile on her lips. How she could find any of that rabble amusing was beyond Flint – which, he supposed, was another reason why he wasn't popular and she was.

“Miranda?” he called out as they got closer. She excused herself from the conversation and stood up, raising her eyebrows at him. “I'd like to introduce you to Miss Bonny.”

“Oh, Miss Bonny,” Miranda said, coming closer. “I'm Mrs Barlow. I've heard much about you, and I'm glad to meet you at last.”

She gave a small bow. Miss Bonny just watched her through slitted eyes, with the air of a feral cat observing an intruder, deciding whether they were friend or foe.

“So you wanna learn how to fight?” Miss Bonny said at last.

Miranda nodded. “I've been told it would be a useful skill if I wanted to sail with this crew.”

“You're going to sail with us, Mrs Barlow?” asked Muldoon. “It's pretty dangerous, you know.”

“I'm aware, Mr Muldoon, I was tending your wounded.”

“Not afraid of blood, then?” Anne eyed the blood-smeared apron.

“No, I'm not.”

“She's also a rather good shot,” Flint interjected, unable to stop himself. She was a bloody good shot, actually, especially with a musket. That knowledge alone allowed him to sleep more soundly at night when he was away at sea.

“Where would a lady learn to shoot a gun?” Muldoon said with a chuckle.

“I was rather good at hunting.”

Miss Bonny gave a contemptuous snort. “I suppose we could try. Wouldn't want you sailing with a bunch of dirty bastards not knowing how to defend yourself.”

“You're the dirty bastard!” Randall squawked.

“I'll have you know we have a code on the Walrus, Miss, unlike Vane's sorry crew!” Howell added.

Flint made no comment. Most of the men on his crew had been recruited by Gates, and Gates tried not to recruit violent bastards. But there had been Singleton, and there had been others. Flint wasn't sure which of the survivors he could trust, nor could he know which of the new recruits brought in by Rackham would be trustworthy.

“Even so, Dr Howell, I would like to know how to keep myself safe, rather than put that burden on anyone else.”

Miss Bonny's eyes softened just a touch, barely visible under her wide hat. “C'mon then,” she told Miranda. “Someone got a cutlass for her?”

The sight of a woman learning to use a sword was a new one for the crew, and attracted quite a lot of attention. Flint noticed that some men actually elected to watch Miranda rather than line up to use the fuck tent. It was a fine entertainment for them, apparently.

Miss Bonny adjusted Miranda's grip – Flint had done this many a time, without much success, showed her some basic footwork – which Flint had already taught her with more success, since Miranda was an excellent dancer, and then proceeded to spar with her. The audience watched, interjecting comments, laughing, whistling and booing. Miranda asked for silence when Miss Bonny's face started to twist with annoyance, and they miraculously piped down.

“Is that Miranda?” Silver had shown up beside Flint, presumably after leaving Rackham to handle the repairs with Dufresne and DeGroot.

“Miss Bonny's teaching her a few moves.”

Silver watched for a while, arms crossed over his chest. “She seems to be moving quite well.”

“She may seem graceful to you, but her stance is awkward, her wrist is too stiff, and she doesn't know how to predict her opponent's next move. _And_ her grip still isn't right.”

“Ah.”

Flint glanced down at him. “You don't know anything about fighting either, do you?”

“Me?” Silver grinned anxiously. “No, not really. I tend to find ways of avoiding a fight, if at all possible.”

“Lucky we didn't try and take that warship together,” Flint grumbled.

“I never said I can't defend myself,” Silver retorted, sounding somewhat hurt.

“I suppose not. You killed the cook, didn't you? On Parrish's ship, before Gates found you?”

Silver shifted uneasily under Flint's gaze. “Well… sort of.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means he was trying to kill me, but he dropped his sword when you fired at the ship. I'd just picked it up when he charged me… and then there was another salvo and he somehow impaled himself on the blade.”

Flint rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“If it hadn't occurred to you yet, Captain, I'm not a sailor and even less a pirate.” Silver gave him a shy little smile. “Just your average coward.”

And average cowards got killed in a fight. Silver could run, he could hide in safe places, and Flint hoped to God that if they were ever under attack, Silver and Miranda would find somewhere safe to wait out the end of a battle. But there always came a time where a confrontation was unavoidable, and Silver may not be as lucky as he had been until then. No, this was unacceptable. Flint couldn't stand the idea of sailing out with both Miranda and Silver incapable of defending themselves.

“All right. Coward or not, you need to know the bare essentials if we want to keep you alive. C'mon.”

He nudged Silver's shoulder with his own, earning himself a bright grin that threatened to blind him, as though somehow Silver had guess that Flint was keen on keeping him alive and was grateful for it.

* * *

 

The day had been gruelling.

Miranda sat in the trap propped up against John – or perhaps John was propped up against her – half-dozing, sweat still cooling on her skin, every muscle in her body aching and twinging. John seemed about as tired and sore as she felt. James glanced at them from time to time, his mouth curling at the edges in a fond smile.

Miss Bonny was a surprisingly good teacher for someone who barely spoke more than five words in a row, and much less needlessly technical than James tended to be. There was certainly something to be said about such vivid instructions as “aim for the cunt's gut”, “twist his balls and pull” and “rip his fucking ear off”. Simple, easy, and effective. The men who'd been watching had winced and subtly shuffled away as Miss Bonny had imparted this knowledge.

Savage as it had all sounded, Miranda understood it for what it was; survival was more important than preserving one's honour in a fair fight. She wasn't certain that she'd manage to put any of Miss Bonny's advice into practice, that she'd even remember a single thing if the time came to fight. But Miranda was glad that James had organised this. His promise that they would sail together was not idle after all.

And he could protest as much as he wanted, James was getting more and more attached to John. Why else would he have decided to teach him how to fight? Miranda and Miss Bonny had actually interrupted their lesson for a moment to watch them. There was nothing quite like seeing James explain some technique, patient and concentrated, while John gazed up at him nearly adoringly. And James had smiled, a proper smile, not a shark-like smirk, when John had clumsily attempted to put James' advice into practice.

They were far from discreet. Even at a distance Muldoon and Logan had sniggered and commented that Captain Flint had a soft spot for Mr Silver. Miss Bonny had just snorted knowingly. It wasn't long before Joji took over from James, who had perhaps finally realised how he'd looked. Joji proved to be a much tougher teacher and had put John through his paces, much like Miss Bonny had put Miranda through hers.

“Well, it looks like we've finally found a way to exhaust you,” James said. He was in much better spirits than he had been that morning, tormenting himself about whether or not John liked him. Doubt still roiled somewhere inside him, of course; it was his nature. He had spent weeks wondering whether Thomas truly liked him, however much Miranda had assured him that he did, however many hints Thomas dropped. But it seemed that James had found a way to keep his doubts about John at bay, for now.

“Mmm,” John answered. “I don't think I'll ever manage to hold a sword again. Or even a spoon.”

“Me neither,” Miranda said with a yawn. “Which means James will have to cook for us tonight.”

James chuckled softly. “You'd make your Captain cook?”

“You're not my Captain, dearest.”

“I am if you're to be part of the crew.” He smirked at her, crooking an eyebrow. Miranda could barely believe it. “I got Dufresne to agree. You're coming with us. You can help Howell with the sick and injured, and help Dufresne with the account book. Does that sound all right?”

Miranda shifted to place her head on James shoulder. “I'd kiss you if it weren't so much of an effort.”

He rubbed between her shoulders comfortingly. “You're welcome.”

The rest of the trip went by like a pleasant dream, their future not quite real in Miranda's mind yet, distant and somehow happy. She knew that it would likely be exhausting, dirty, dangerous – but she could worry about that later. Right now, she revelled in the fact that James had kept his promise, that the end of this ordeal was in sight, and that what had started between John, James and her was slowly flourishing.

Once they got home, Miranda spent quite a while soaking in the tub, then helped John do the same. James obediently got to cooking, finding his way around the kitchen with ease, cautiously walking around the full tub that blocked his path to the fireplace.

“Today was a success, I think,” John said at last from the depths of the tub. He'd been very quiet until then, likely exhausted by his exertion. “It sounds like we might be able to leave quite soon, doesn't it?”

“We can spend tomorrow fixing and loading the ship and leave the next day, if all goes well,” James replied. “We really can't afford to wait around much longer. We might already be too late.”

“Ugh, I'd rather not think of it.” John pulled himself upright. “I spent a whole afternoon trying to fight Joji. I don't want that to have been for nothing.”

James' mouth twitched into a smile, then he turned back to his cooking. John used the occasion to get out of the bath and pull his trousers on, still keen on preserving some modesty in front of James. Miranda sat by the fire in her robe, her sore muscles somewhat soothed by the water.

“I just hope Vane doesn't figure out where we're hiding in the meantime,” James said. “The last thing we need is a confrontation with his crew before we leave.”

“I wouldn't worry too much,” John said, towelling off his damp hair. “Rackham told me Vane's got his hands full with that governor's daughter. They haven't got an answer to their ransom note, and Vane's under pressure from his crew to go out to Charles Town to make some more direct threats.”

“That'd be a boon. With some luck he'll get himself captured and we can take that fucking fort back.”

Something niggled at Miranda's mind. James hadn't mentioned a governor, but a lord, the last time he'd spoken of it. The idea of any girl trapped in a fort with a violent pirate crew still chilled Miranda to the bone. But there was something else, a connection that her tired mind was trying to make.

“Are you speaking about Charles Town in Carolina?” Miranda asked as the pieces suddenly all snapped into place.

“Christ,” James let out before John could even open his mouth. He turned to Miranda. “You think it's Peter's daughter?”

“Unless there's a governor in another Charles Town that I'm not aware of, I'm afraid so.”

James winced, and Miranda shuddered. She remembered little Abigail well, though she had only been a young child. Quiet and sweet, long brown hair, wide eyes. How old would she be now? Sixteen, perhaps. Sixteen and trapped with the worst sort of pirates. She couldn't be in more dire straits.

John broke the silence. “Um… dare I ask what's going on?”

“The governor in Carolina is Peter Ashe, a very close friend of my late husband's. I knew his wife well, and he had a daughter, Abigail.”

“Ah, shit,” John hissed, barely audibly.

Miranda stood up, her mind suddenly aflame. “We have to do something, James. If what you've told me about Vane is true–”

“She's a hostage,” James cut in. “She's much more valuable to them if they do her no harm.”

“Until they lose patience. Isn't that what John was saying, that Vane's men are putting him under pressure because Peter isn't responding? What happens to her when they decide Peter won't respond and that she's a worthless hostage?”

Miranda didn't think she had it in her that day to grow livid, but the thought of what they might do to Abigail made her stomach churn. She paced in front of the fireplace, a part of her ready to march down there and fight her way through the men holding Abigail. Nobody touched Elizabeth Ashe's daughter, not if Miranda could do something about it.

“Look, it's all rumours for the time being.” Miranda knew this placating tone, and knew that James had already made up his mind. Of course he had. “And we need to focus on our current goal. It's a matter of days, Miranda.”

“A young woman's life might be over in a matter of days, James.”

“Do you think Miss Guthrie could help?” John asked. James raised his eyebrows at him. “From what I gather, Vane has a… thing with Miss Guthrie, right?”

“They used to sleep together, if that's what you're referring to.”

“And therefore she has some sway over him, doesn't she? Do you think we could ask her to persuade Vane to put the girl somewhere safe, away from his crew?”

Miranda took a deep breath, trying to keep anger from knotting her stomach. Of course John would side with James, he'd made it quite clear that the gold was the most important thing to him, after all.

“I can ask,” James said. “I'm not sure she'd agree to it, though.”

“Ah, yes, appealing to the goodness of Miss Guthrie's heart isn't very efficient, is it?”

James gave him a wry smile, which at any other time would have been sweet, but which infuriated Miranda all the more in this moment. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear her head.

“If something happens to Peter's daughter in Nassau, he will come for us,” Miranda said. “He will make sure the Navy moves on us. On the other hand, if we return her to him safely, without asking for a ransom, he may be inclined to allow Nassau to continue its existence.”

“What?” James said, taken aback. He was listening to her now, of course, now that it was no longer a personal problem, but one involving Nassau. This angered Miranda too, but she clung to the only argument she had.

“How long do you think we can continue like this, without any kind of legitimacy?” Miranda pushed on, half-formed thoughts desperately flying out of her lips. “Having the support of someone like Peter could be the first step in bringing peace here. If we return his daughter to him and use that occasion to expose our case, it might be all we need.”

James' brow crumpled thoughtfully as he worked out what she was saying. She could feel him on the edge of agreeing.

“God, no,” John burst out. They both turned to him. “Really? Sending Captain Flint to return a Governor's daughter? _That_ Governor's daughter? Isn't he famous for hanging pirates?”

“Peter knows James, though. He's a friend.”

John snorted. “He may have been a friend when Captain Flint was… whoever he was when he was in the Navy, and he may have been your friend when you were a Lord's wife. How long ago was that?”

“Ten years,” Miranda muttered reluctantly.

“And how close friends were you with him? You and Captain Flint personally, not your husband? Were you close enough to him that you can say, without the shadow of a doubt, that you can still trust him with your life to this day?”

“He was good, reasonable man,” Miranda said, aware of the weakness of her own words.

“Any good, reasonable, rich _noble_ man would put their power and their reputation above anything else. He hasn't paid the ransom for his own daughter yet – he's made Vane wait long enough for his men to become restless. Why, do you think?”

Miranda stared at John, another question dashing through her mind. Why hadn't Peter helped Thomas? Why hadn't he pleaded for his release? Why had he let Thomas rot in there, until death had seemed a better choice than living? Her anger grew, against Peter, against John, against James, against all of them who had the power to do something, but chose not to.

“Letters get lost at sea all the time, Mr Silver!”

John gave a mirthless laugh. “Ah, a gentlewoman's naiveté. Maybe that man is just callous enough to choose not to negotiate with pirates and preserve his reputation.”

“Oh please, we all know why you're arguing with me! This plan threatens your precious gold!”

“This plan is lunacy!” John shouted. “On the one hand, you could get the gold and get out of this fucking hole, go anywhere, get a life, be free. On the other, you can lead Captain Flint right into a fucking Governor's hands, hoping he'll be pardoned. He won't be pardoned, he'll be hanged! And god knows what they'll do to you!”

There was a hysterical edge to his voice, a panic in his eyes that went straight to Miranda's heart. She glanced at James, who was standing there with a half-peeled potato in his hands, gazing at John intently, barely breathing.

John seemed to notice the shift in their mood and grinned tensely. “Look, I didn't save the Captain half a dozen times for you to get him killed before I get my gold, all right?”

“All right,” Miranda said, half-sagging as the rage seeped out of her. “Fine. We'll talk about it again when we return from the Urca wreck, if Abigail is still being held in Nassau by then.”

“If you must,” John said, running his fingers through his hair with a long sigh. His hands were shaking.

James moved to Miranda and touched his fingertips to her cheek, soft as a feather. She was so exhausted, so wound up, that the touch brought tears to her eyes. “I'll still talk to Eleanor tomorrow and tell her what you said. You're right, harming the girl would attract war on Nassau. Eleanor may be able to persuade Vane of that too.”

“Thank you,” Miranda breathed, still reeling under the force of her own fury. Clearly the rage she'd been swallowing down for the past decade still burned as hot as ever, barely quenched at all even after James had murdered her monstrous father-in-law.

John stood in the middle of the kitchen, trousers half riding down his hips, a wet towel dripping on the floor. He stared at them both, confusion written all over his face. When he noticed Miranda looking at him he shifted uneasily, crossing his arms. “I, uh. I'm sorry. None of this is really my business, after all.”

“It's all right, John,” Miranda told him softly, warmth returning into her voice. He'd revealed himself, revealed much more than he'd wanted about his desire to protect them both; the thought filled Miranda's heart.

John gave a nod and a tense smile. “I'll see you later.” He hurried away into his room, likely embarrassed at how upset he'd become, at how attached he was becoming.

“He really cares about you,” James murmured into Miranda's ear. She glanced at him, and found a faraway smile on his lips.

“And about you,” she breathed, pressing her face into the crook of James' shoulder as he wrapped her in his arms.

They weren't there yet. The gold wasn't yet within their grasp, their relationship was barely budding, and there was still much to do to set their lives right. Yet Miranda was filled with a certainty, now – as long as they stayed together, happiness was within reach. They only needed to grasp it.


	9. Chapter 9

Silver waited in a little street by Eleanor's tavern, watching people go about their business in Nassau, some more sober than others. This was their last day on the island before leaving for the gold and then– who knew what would happen then. Everything would change, Silver was certain of it. Whether things would change for the better, the worse, or both at once, remained to be seen.

The three of them had spent that morning at the beach to oversee the preparations, then they'd returned to Miranda's to let her prepare her cottage for their absence. Apparently it was the first time she was going to leave the house for any amount of time in ten years, and as the departure approached, Silver saw tension grow in her, worries about a myriad small things – the chickens, her vegetable patch, what she would wear on a ship – crowding her mind.

Flint and Silver had let Miranda sort these things out alone and gone to Nassau to talk to Miss Guthrie about the Ashe girl. Silver had declined meeting Miss Guthrie with Flint; it really wasn't his business and he wanted nothing to do with it. The whole affair stank of danger. Miranda's suggestion the previous day of going to see that Governor – especially with a pirate as famous as Flint – still made Silver's skin crawl. For all their education, the upper crust could be incredibly stupid when it came to survival.

Flint finally emerged from Miss Guthrie's, brow creased thoughtfully under the heavy turban he wore to conceal his face. He glanced around as though looking for Silver; Silver slid out of the corner he'd been hiding in and joined him.

“So? How did it go?”

Flint gave a shrug and started walking towards the shanty town where they'd left the trap. “I did my best to convince her.”

“But?”

“But it's Eleanor, and getting her to ask favours from Vane is always a delicate matter.”

“What _is_ their relationship exactly?”

“They used to sleep together. I think he's got a soft spot for her, not that he'll ever admit it. I'm not sure how she feels about him. A mixture of contempt and lust, maybe.”

Which, Silver suspected, was exactly how Flint felt about him. And yet he couldn't drop the subject. “I see. So there's no affection there?”

“There might be. Eleanor's not inclined to admit to that kind of feeling.”

“Would you?” Flint raised his eyebrows. Silver was shocked at what his own mouth had just done, but it was too late to take it back. “If you had a soft spot for someone, would you admit to it, or would you let them believe all you felt for them was contempt – with a touch of lust?”

Against all Silver's expectations, Flint's stern face softened somewhat and his eyes briefly met Silver's. In spite of the cloth covering his mouth, Silver thought that Flint was smiling. This somehow felt more meaningful than any answer Flint could have spoken aloud. Silver's heart galloped.

“And you?” Flint asked. Silver barely understood the question at first. “Do you even have soft spots?”

“Of course not,” Silver said quickly, his smile sharp. “Can't afford soft spots when you're a thief and a coward, Captain.”

“You have one for Miranda.”

“Well, so do you,” Silver retorted with a chuckle. “You were ready to jeopardise our whole plan for a whim of hers.”

“You're right.” Flint shrugged. “I was tempted. It looked like another way to secure Nassau.”

“And one that would make you feel good about yourself,” Silver blurted out before he could stop himself. Flint stared at him, but there wasn't any anger there, only a sort of quiet desperation.

By this time they'd reached the miserable outskirts of Nassau, and Silver caught sight of a man standing by their trap. Flint saw him too, and his features hardened immediately back into the face of an angry, harsh pirate's. “What the fuck does Hornigold want with me?”

He strode forward, pulling away the scarf covering his mouth; Silver followed uneasily. Something didn't feel right about this. The hair at the back of his neck prickled as he walked through deserted tents and shacks. If it had been up to him, he'd have fled the place.

There was a rush of footsteps behind them and Silver cried out when someone kicked his feet from under him. A man's heavy body thudded into his back, pinning him to the ground, chasing the air out of his lungs. Before Silver could even think of defending himself, the man grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back. Through the pain and confusion, Silver saw Flint draw his blade, lightning quick, and charge Hornigold – too late. Men threw heavy nets over him from two opposing sides; Flint stumbled under the weight of them.

“Bind him!” Hornigold told the men. Flint was still a flurry of snarling, vicious movement. Four men punched and kicked at him through the layers of net and Flint crumpled to the ground; Silver screwed his eyes closed, stomach lurching.

“What do we do with this one?” asked the man who was gripping Silver's arm.

“Is this the one who's been doing Flint's bidding in town?” Hornigold asked, pushing the tip of his boot under Silver's chin to force him to look up. In the background, a man screamed and fell as Flint surged up with his blade, slashing through the net and into the man's throat. Three more men grabbed Flint and dragged him back down to the ground, even as their accomplice fell in a spray of blood.

“Well, answer me,” Hornigold said, barely moved by the death of one of his men.

“I am,” Silver gasped. The men had wrestled the blade out of Flint's hands and were binding his wrists and feet.

“Who are you?”

“John Silver. I was captured a few weeks ago and made to work as a cook on the Walrus. When we ran into trouble and the crew mutinied, Flint took me along with him. He made me do his bidding, Sir.”

Flint stopped struggling. He'd heard. He'd heard, but would he understand? “You shit!” he burst out suddenly, struggling anew. “One more word from you and I'll slit your fucking throat, you traitor!”

Relief flooded Silver, both at Flint playing along – or so Silver hoped – and at Hornigold's next words: “Release him, Fletcher.”

The man leaning on Silver's back rolled away. Silver lay there for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, catching his breath.

“Well? Get up, Mr Silver.”

Silver did, wiping off the dust and gravel on his face with a trembling hand. Flint had killed one of Hornigold's men; three more were working on binding and gagging him. Fletcher and another man – a Walrus man, Silver realised with a shudder – flanked Hornigold as he stood before Silver. A last one stood further away, apparently a lookout. Eight men. Eight men, and he was unarmed, and Flint was tied up.

“What exactly did Captain Flint make you do?” Hornigold asked. His eyes were cold as a snake's, a mirthless smirk curled his lips.

“Ah, decency prevents me from telling you everything he made me do,” Silver said with a shudder. “I'm not a pirate, sir, nor a killer. I was of no use to the Captain when it came to fighting, but… well, I must have one of those faces, you know?” He gave a small, shy smile. “I'm quite good at persuading people. Captain Flint was plotting to take back the fort. He sent me to Nassau to deliver messages and… and make myself agreeable to people who might help him get it.”

Hornigold's face twisted at the mention of the fort. Of course it would; Silver knew that he'd been hounding Miss Guthrie about it for the past few weeks.

“Did you know anything about this?” Hornigold asked the Walrus man – Mills, Silver thought. He'd been one of the men who'd tried to leave with Dufresne when Flint had been reinstated.

“I didn't. But then the Captain always plots behind our backs. It's why we mutinied.”

Hornigold nodded. “Let's go. Get Flint up.” His men attempted to drag up a kicking and snarling Flint from the ground. Fuck. If they left with him, Silver had few options. Would he even have time to get help before Hornigold killed Flint? At best he could get to Miss Guthrie, but Silver wasn't sure how many men she could raise in an emergency.

“What are you going to do with Flint?” Silver asked. “Only I've been his captive for weeks, and I'd quite like to see how it ends for him with my own eyes.”

Hornigold gave a small chuckle. “Mr Silver, would you stand before an English court and testify against Captain Flint?”

“Of course,” Silver said before he could even make head or tail of the request.

“Good. We're off to Jamaica to have him hanged. There's a bounty on his head, and turning him in will secure us pardons. Since old Christopher's dead, we have room for one more. Come along.”

 _Bounty,_ _p_ _ardons,_ _room for one more._ As Silver followed the group down towards a beach, his mind boiled with questions about how Hornigold had become privy to this, but now was not the time. He had to find his chance. Eight men against him. Perhaps he should have run, returned to the Walrus, begged them to try and intercept Hornigold before he got to Jamaica. It was too late for that, now, he'd surely get killed if he ran.

Flint glanced back at him several times, but if he had a plan in mind, Silver didn't understand it. Still he walked a little faster to get closer to the four men holding Flint. The man called Fletcher walked beside Silver, but didn't protest when Silver quickened his pace. Two more men walked at the front with Hornigold, more focused on what was ahead than what was behind them.

They came in view of a secluded beach where a rowboat awaited. Beyond that, Silver could see a ship waiting off the coast – probably Hornigold's, ready to sail for Jamaica. Fuck. Fuck, this couldn't happen. Fletcher's hand moved away from the hilt of his cutlass to swat at a mosquito, leaving the weapon unguarded for a moment.

Flint caught Silver's eye, raised his eyebrows, urging him on. Christ. Christ, no, he couldn't–

Fletcher's hand came away from his cutlass again to rub the side of his face. Silver's fingers wrapped around the hilt, silent as a shadow. At the same moment, Flint dropped to the ground, dragging down two men with him. Before Silver knew it, he'd unsheathed Fletcher's cutlass and driven it into the man's back. As Fletcher screamed and crumpled, Silver dashed towards Flint.

A gunshot went off from under the pile of men writhing to get Flint back into an upright position. Hornigold let out a shout, jumping aside as the bullet whizzed past him and stuck in a tree. Silver grabbed one of the men, tugged him off Flint and pushed his blade into the man's gut. The man rolled onto the ground with a horrible gurgle.

“Get that little fucker!” Hornigold screamed, sending a pang of horror through Silver's stomach.

The man beside Silver tried to draw his cutlass, but Silver had already grabbed his most recent victim's gun. He cocked it and pulled the trigger, heart leaping at the sound of gunfire. The bullet tore a hole in the man's throat, and there was a collective cry as blood splattered everywhere.

Flint made an urgent sound through the gag, holding his bound wrists up towards Silver.

Someone grabbed at Silver even as he brought the cutlass down on Flint's ties. The blade was barely sharp enough to make a dent in the rope. He struck a second time, a third, harder and harder. He saw blood spurting over the rope just before he was dragged away and thrown onto the ground, a heavy hand clamping him down by the throat. The man above him raised a knife, his face nothing but a snarl. This was it. Fuck, this was going to be his end, this was going to be Flint's end, and they'd accomplished nothing, and Miranda–

There was a gunshot and the face of the man above Silver burst in a spray of blood. He slumped down, crushing Silver under his weight, blood and brains seeping into Silver's clothes. Silver didn't move, didn't breathe, too petrified to even tremble, a horrified scream stuck in his still-burning throat.

In the background there were cries, the crash of swords and more gunfire. Hornigold howled a curse. Then there was a last gunshot followed by frenzied footfalls, splashing in shallow water, and finally the rhythmic slap of oars.

“Yeah you run!” Flint screamed. “We'll kill the fucking lot of you if you cross our path again!”

Silver had never heard a sweeter sound than Flint's furious, murderous voice. He tried to push the corpse off his chest, but now his limbs felt as weak as a child's. He heard Flint's heavy footsteps, then the body pinning Silver down was abruptly tossed aside.

Flint stared into Silver's eyes, panting. The rope used to gag him hung around his neck like a noose. His face was splattered with blood, as were his arms and hands, but his eyes had turned soft again and Silver wanted to weep.

“You all right?” Flint asked, reaching to touch Silver's cheek. His fingers were sticky with blood and rough with dirt.

“Yeah,” Silver managed to gasp, drawing himself up. “You?”

Flint nodded. “Let's get away from here.”

In the distance, Silver saw Hornigold retreating on the rowboat with two remaining men. One of them was bleeding heavily from the shoulder. The side of Hornigold's face was bloody. Then Flint was helping him up, strong hands keeping him stable.

Silver wobbled at first, had to grip the back of Flint's tunic to keep his balance. There were dead and wounded men everywhere, blood, gore, brains– Silver's stomach heaved. Flint pulled him along, and Silver's legs suddenly remembered what they were good at. He ran.

He was choking for breath when they finally got back to the trap. The old mare still stood there, pawing the ground restlessly near the corpse of the man Flint had killed there. Apart from that obvious mar on the scenery, everything was quiet and calm in the shanty town, as it had been every other day they'd ridden into Nassau. It felt unreal, like a place in a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

“Hey.” Flint hadn't let go of Silver's wrist as they'd run back to apparent safety. His grip tightened now, fingers smearing blood on Silver's skin. “Breathe,” he said, wrapping his other hand around the back of Silver's neck. “We're going to be all right.”

“You're bleeding,” Silver said, reaching up to wipe at a slash across Flint's cheek. His movements felts sluggish, unreal, as though he were underwater. His heart wouldn't stop hammering.

“I'm fine,” Flint said. His face was so close that Silver could feel Flint's breath on his skin, see the flare of his nostrils. “You saved my life again today.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Silver murmured, pressing closer to Flint. He was warm and strong, even if he trembled just as much as Silver did.

“No,” Flint said, his lips quirking into a smile. “I have too much of a soft spot for you to let you die.”

Silver surged forward, unthinking, brimming with terror and relief and elation. They were alive. They were fucking alive, against all odds. He pressed his lips to Flint's, tasting the metallic tang of blood, feeling the soft flesh yield under his touch. Flint's mouth stirred against Silver's, falling open to welcome Silver's tongue.

They were devouring each other's lips before Silver could even comprehend how it had happened, Flint's fingers tangling in Silver's hair. Silver clung to Flint now, gripping his neck, the back of his tunic, pressed up against his chest as they stole each other's breath, tongue chasing tongue, lips sucking and bruising, swallowing each other's moans. Flint leaned into him, trapping him between his body and the wooden frame of the trap, and Christ, this felt _glorious_.

A sudden noise and a movement behind him made Silver tear away from Flint with a start. It had likely just been the old mare snorting, but Silver couldn't help but shudder with fright.

“It's all right,” Flint whispered, pressing his forehead to Silver's, seeking his lips again.

But it wasn't. There was danger in this shanty town and there was danger pressed up against Silver, trying to claim his mouth again. Silver was cold now, as though ice was running through his veins. He shivered and squirmed away from Flint, shaking his head.

“I didn't mean to… I don't want…” Silver's legs were wobbling uncontrollably. What if Flint decided to turn him around and fuck him, caught up in the heat of bloodlust? What if he didn't leave Silver a choice and made him finish what he'd started? The idea made Silver shudder, but what frightened him even more was that part of him welcomed the idea of letting Flint have his way with him, rough and painful as it would be.

Flint stared at Silver for a moment, grim, exhausted. Then he gave a sigh. “We should go back to Eleanor.”

“Why?”

“We've been betrayed. How the fuck did Hornigold have the idea of getting pardoned by capturing me, d'you think? Right after Billy showed up with those ten pardons? She needs to know about that.”

“Right.” Silver didn't think he could face it. He felt as though he was nothing more than a pit of exhaustion and terror and terrible choices. He'd just kissed Flint. Fuck, he'd just kissed Flint and then rejected him. The jumble of emotions hurtled around inside him, enough to make him seasick on land.

“Can you walk?”

“Just about,” Silver mumbled, and followed Flint back to Miss Guthrie's.

They were greeted by an elegant “what the fuck, Flint?” and then a servant brought them rags to clean up their wounds. Silver's hands moved numbly over his skin. None of the blood seemed to be his. There were scuffs and scrapes on him, and he ached from being flung to the ground, but overall he was surprisingly unharmed.

Flint's forearms were cut where Silver had caught him with the blade. Bruises were appearing across his face, and likely more were hidden under his shirt where the men had kicked him. Flint barely looked at Silver as he cleaned himself off, his face turned hard as stone once again.

Silver slumped on a chair, alternately feeling cold and shivery then hot and clammy. He said nothing as Flint told Miss Guthrie what had happened, his tone growling and angry, recounting how Hornigold had ambushed them, his goal of getting pardoned by giving Flint in, and how Silver had managed to get him free. This earned Silver a disbelieving glance from Miss Guthrie, while Flint finished his story.

“What d'you think his next move'll be?” she asked.

“Well if he can't capture me and he's bent on getting pardoned, he might try someone else instead. Someone important, like you. Or Vane, but he's well protected.”

“Fuck,” Miss Guthrie hissed, pacing the room. “How did he know you were in New Providence?”

“Maybe he guessed I was when he saw the warship in the bay?”

“People were trying to follow me and Billy when we were going to Culverts Bay.” Silver barely managed to keep his voice from trembling. “Miranda was waiting for us in the trap on that day in exactly the same place where we were ambushed today.”

“There were nine men trying to capture me.” Flint's tone was contemplative.

“One of them was a Walrus man,” Silver said. “Mills.”

Flint frowned. Clearly he hadn't recognised the man. “Well, that's how Hornigold knew where I was going to be. So we have Hornigold, Mills, and seven others. That's nine. When I killed one of the men, Hornigold offered a pardon to Silver for testifying against me. That's nine pardons, again, and Billy had ten. Do you still have them here?”

“Of course I do,” Miss Guthrie grumbled, searching through the drawers in her desk. “Are you saying Billy sent someone here to tell Hornigold about you?”

“I suppose he could have.” Flint gave a sigh.

“Him or anyone he mentioned the pardons to,” Silver said. “That kind of treachery isn't really Billy's style, is it?”

“Well why the fuck would he mention the pardons to anyone?” She was still searching for the pardons. Silver would have expected her to have kept such precious documents somewhere safer.

Flint shrugged and tried to rub the bridge of his nose, promptly drawing his fingers away with a hiss. Little by little, Flint had started slumping with exhaustion too.

“And why the fuck didn't anyone notice that one of your men was missing?”

“I don't know, Eleanor,” Flint snapped.

“He was with the crew when we left this morning,” Silver said. “God knows how he got away from Joji. He must have got to Hornigold early this afternoon and set all this in motion before we arrived here.”

Miss Guthrie heaved a great sigh. “Well I can't find the fucking pardons. And I know where I put them, so…”

“Someone stole them from your office,” Flint finished.

“Hornigold was in here this afternoon, whining about the fort.” Miss Guthrie frowned. “At some point there was a commotion in the tavern, and I had to go and see what was going on.”

Flint nodded gravely.

Miss Guthrie scowled. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Maybe you should go to Vane. Hide out in the fort until we get back.”

“You fucking serious?”

“Tell him you want to keep an eye on Miss Ashe.”

Miss Guthrie rolled her eyes. “Christ.” She was quiet for a while, then when she looked up at Flint there was something sharp and hurt in her eyes. “Did you see Mr Scott? Was he involved?”

Flint shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.”

She gave what sounded like a relieved sigh. “Good. Now I think you should fuck off home and get that gold back here as soon as you can. D'you need an escort?”

“No, but I'll take a pistol or two if you have any spares.”

Silver followed Flint back to the trap, worries swarming his mind. Someone had betrayed them, not just Mills, but someone still with the crew. What if the whole crew was going to betray them, in spite of all the work they'd done? What if there was another ambush? And then, aside from all of that but just as distressing, he'd messed things up with Flint. Now Flint wouldn't meet his eye, and looked sadder and more exhausted by the second.

It wasn't long before they were on their way into the interior. Silver could barely stand the cart's movement, the way it shuddered when they rolled over a rock, the grind of the axle, the dust flying in their faces. The sun was setting, and everything was a fucking mess. Silver still couldn't stop shaking.

Flint's face grew graver and graver, even as Silver tried to will himself to stay calm, not to think of the look of on the face of the man he'd shot in the throat, or the noise that other man had made when he'd stabbed him in the stomach. He willed himself not to throw up, not to faint, not to scream. He wanted to do all three at once. Flint was sitting right beside him, and a part of Silver wanted to curl up against his chest and hold on, because there, there he'd feel safe. He'd felt safe in Flint's arms, until panic had taken over, and he'd ruined that too.

Silver must have made a noise, a heaving gasp perhaps, because Flint glanced at him. His face was no less sad, but it was gentle. So gentle, after the fury. “It was a fucking nightmare, wasn't it?” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Silver breathed, and tears pricked his eyes. “For a moment there, I thought… I really thought it was all over.”

“You probably could've run.”

“Don't.” Silver shook his head. “I couldn't. I'm much too used to saving your sorry life. And Miranda would've killed me if I hadn't.”

Flint nodded. “Well, I'm grateful.”

And Silver wasn't shaking any less. Flint made a face, hands twitching on the reins. Silver could see the hesitation in each halting movement. It was strange, out of place for someone so quick and confident in a fight.

“There's a blanket under the seat,” Flint said at last. “Would you like me to stop so I can get it?”

Silver shook his head. “I'm not cold. Well I am, but I'm also hot and sweaty. I just… I wish I could stop shaking.”

“It's a common reaction after a battle,” Flint said. “Soon we'll be home and you can rest.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, it's really–”

“I'm sorry about the kiss.”

Flint went silent, his grasp tightening on the reins. He made no effort to hide the pained look on his face.

“It was stupid… I just… I needed something to take my mind off it, and… it was a terrible idea.” Flint looked at him, and Silver couldn't stand those eyes anymore. He gave a forced chuckle. “I mean honestly, I'm not sure which is more dangerous: going up against a bunch of pirates trying to abduct you, or kissing Captain Flint, terror of the seas.”

That did it. Flint briefly looked as though Silver had stabbed him in the gut, then turned away and stared at the road ahead. Silver curled up awkwardly on the bench and looked at the dried grass unfurl under his eyes as they sped along.

What he'd said was wrong. He knew how badly it would cut Flint, how cruel it was to have said it. Christ, Flint had even offered Silver a blanket. What kind of dread pirate did that sort of thing? Of course it was a persona. Of course he wasn't a villain, not by Silver's definition anyway.

But the fear had been real and it still lingered. It was the same fear that had gripped him the previous night, when he'd argued with Miranda, shouted at her with a passion he'd never expected to feel, because her idea would have got her and Flint killed. He'd become attached to Miranda. He'd killed to save Flint's life. How much deeper could he go without drowning?

The truth was that they'd get bored of him. There was something powerful that held Flint and Miranda together, revenge for Miranda's husband, rebellion against England… things Silver didn't understand and could never truly be a part of. Miranda, perhaps, wanted to let him in. Flint… to Flint, Silver was likely a welcome distraction. A useful ally, at best, but Flint's allies were usually disposable.

When they finally got home, Silver was exhausted. His hands still trembled, but the tremors that had racked his whole body had abated. He dreaded to have to explain this to Miranda.

The look on her face when she saw them was exactly what Silver had feared. She ran to them while Flint fiddled with the mare's harness, trying to get it off with shaky hands. “What on earth happened to you?”

“Nearly got abducted and carried off to Jamaica to be hanged,” Flint said. His tone was distant and cold.

Miranda stared in dismay. “What?!”

“Nine men attacked us,” Silver said. “We managed to fight them off. Neither of us is badly injured, but I really need a rest. That all right Captain?”

“Fine.”

“John–”

Silver hurried inside, knowing Miranda wouldn't go after him and leave Flint looking the way he did, cut and bruised, blood still caked in his hair, soaking his clothes. Silver didn't hear her follow him, both to his relief and disappointment. He could have done with holding her tight for a little while.

Only when Silver closed the bedroom door behind him did a sob burst out of his chest. His legs gave way under him and he fell to his knees beside the bed, hugging the mattress and burying his face in the sheets.

He didn't know how long he knelt there, weeping, shivering, grinding his teeth as the whole sequence of events played over and over in his mind. The faces of the men he'd killed were already a blur, but the cries and the blood were vividly imprinted in his mind, as were the sensations of his blade sinking into flesh, his finger pulling the trigger, the man's hand squeezing his throat.

And then there was only Flint. Flint helping him up, dragging him away from the bodies, his hands gentle and comforting, his voice a soothing murmur. Why the fuck had Silver kissed him? Wasn't it enough to know that Flint cared whether Silver lived or died? The expression on Flint's face when Silver had pushed him away– fuck.

Silver wiped his face on a bloodstained sleeve, heaving a deep, shuddering breath. He couldn't leave it like this, if only for his own safety. Having Flint – and likely Miranda – giving him the cold shoulder while they sailed for the gold was unthinkable. This alliance had to stay strong; if that meant sleeping with Flint to prove himself, he would. Part of him wanted to anyway, and there'd be time enough afterwards to disentangle himself and leave. He had to patch things up.

Everything was quiet when Silver stepped out of his room, but it wasn't long before Miranda hurried towards him. If Flint had told her everything that had passed, if she was angry about Silver's behaviour towards Flint, her face betrayed none of it. There was only concern. Before he could say anything she pulled him into her arms and held him tight; Silver's knees threatened to give way again.

He sagged against her, pressing his face into the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her skin. Miranda's fingers twisted in his curls, her other hand rubbed circles between his shoulder-blades. Silver had to fight back more tears as he squeezed her tight.

“Thank you,” Miranda breathed into his ear. “You were so brave.”

“I don't feel it,” Silver said. He knew he was clinging to her, hated himself for it, but he couldn't let go of her just yet.

“It must have been terrifying. But you saved him, John. You went up against nine armed men to save him.”

“Eight. Flint killed one.” Then Silver chuckled. “Christ, eight men. I must have gone completely insane.”

Miranda pulled back to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Yes. Completely insane.” She smiled. “And again, I couldn't be more grateful.”

“After we've got the gold, you have to leave this place.” The words pushed their way out of Silver's mouth before he could think, desperate and breathless. “You and Flint. It's not safe, never will be.”

“Don't worry, dearest.” Miranda kissed his jaw, his cheek, his temple. “That's my greatest hope. All I need is to persuade James.”

“I kissed him, Miranda. I kissed him and then I–”

“I know, I know. Don't worry about it.”

“He's not a villain. I never thought he was. Christ, I don't even know why I said what I did.”

“Ah, but I do.” Miranda gave a little smile, and squeezed him a little tighter in her arms. “Come now. Let's get you properly cleaned up.”

Silver didn't resist. Miranda guided him into the kitchen, where Flint had ostensibly had a bath and removed his clothes, some of which lay soaking in a bucket. The puddles on the floor were mixed with the rusty colour of old blood. Silver watched them numbly as Miranda undressed him and wiped him down with a wet rag. He offered no resistance when she tilted his head back and dipped his hair into a bucket of water, working blood and dirt out of his locks.

All of this felt like a dream. Being attacked, rescuing Flint, kissing Flint, coming home – _home!_ – and being taken care of. It felt like a dream, and soon this dream would be over too, once their lives changed and they got the gold. Silver didn't know how he felt about that, either.

“Why do you think I said what I did?” Silver asked, only now reacting to her words. Miranda was already towelling his hair dry.

“I think that you like James very much. And I think that it frightens you.” Silver glanced up at her. Even with her dress splashed with bloodied water, her hair in disarray, she was more beautiful than ever. And she was right, of course. She read him like a fucking book. “How better to keep a safe distance than to push him away when he gets too close?”

Miranda helped him into a nightshirt – one of Flint's, he supposed – then she handed him a bowl of soup. He wanted to refuse, but after a couple of mouthfuls he discovered that he'd been ravenous and devoured the lot. In the background, he heard Miranda sigh and start to set her kitchen right again. Wherever Flint was, he was completely silent.

“I think you should sleep with us tonight,” Miranda said as she took the empty bowl from him. Silver's face must have been a picture, because she chuckled and shook her head. “Just sleep. We're all too exhausted for anything else.”

“But Flint…”

“James will welcome it.” She smiled, but there was deep melancholy there. “He's lonely, you know. A loneliness I can't quite relieve. And… if I may. I think that you are lonely too.”

Silver found himself laughing, mirthless, hollow, horrified. Like a fucking book, every time. Miranda simply smiled, taking his hand and drawing him towards her bedroom. What was Silver to do? She was an irresistible force, much like Flint was.

Flint looked the worse for the wear when Silver saw him lying in bed. Bruises and nicks peppered his face, his forearms were bandaged, and more bruises peeked from under his open shirt. He'd been reading, but glanced up at Silver when he came in, eyes wary.

“Nobody's sleeping alone tonight,” Miranda said. Her tone was final. Flint gave a nod and shifted to give Silver some room. “I'll be back once I've finished in the kitchen.”

Silver settled on one side of the bed, pulling the sheets over himself. Flint went back to his book. Even his profile was handsome. Silver discreetly studied his straight nose, strong chin, and that slight ridge formed by his concentrated frown. And his lips, buried under that russet beard… fuck. Silver lay back and closed his eyes. The fight, the blood, the men – all those things were fading now. But he could still feel Flint's lips hot on his, devouring him with a tenderness Silver could barely comprehend. He was a complete idiot.

“Can I tell you a story about Solomon Little?” Silver asked, staring at the ceiling.

Flint snorted. It was obvious he thought these stories weren't true, and he wasn't entirely wrong. He wasn't entirely right either. But Flint put down his book all the same. “Go on then.”

“When kids get old enough to work, homes for orphans can't wait to be rid of them. At best they send them into service, make them take the sort of jobs nobody else wants to do. Hard work, little pay. I never liked it, and neither did Solomon Little. He soon figured out that a few hours' dishonest work could bring in much more money than a day's honest work.”

Though Silver couldn't bring himself to look at Flint, he registered Flint nodding, felt Flint's curious gaze on him.

“Picking pockets and stealing from stalls wasn't bad – I got quite adept at it myself, used it a lot when I didn't have a con going. But it's risky. Getting caught can mean street justice rather than jail. So when Solomon Little didn't feel up to facing those odds, he hung around the docks or in Soho to make a bit of quick money.”

Flint huffed softly, shifting onto his side to better watch Silver.

“He thought it would be easy, you know? Letting a bloke have his way with him. Most of the time it was. A quick fumble for a few coins. But a few times… a few times he came home the worse for the wear.” Silver swallowed hard, turned to meet Flint's gaze. Flint was watching intently, a concerned frown on his face. “Men are rough bastards, especially with boys.”

“I know,” Flint said. “You find that out soon enough after you board your first ship.”

A weight lifted from Silver's chest; Flint understood. “Did… did you…?”

“I only witnessed it. I kicked and bit and tore at whoever overstepped their bounds with me.”

Silver chuckled. “I can't say that surprises me in the least.”

Flint's eyes were sad again. “You think I'm one of those men.”

“No, I–” Silver sighed. “I fear it. It's not about you in particular I just… I can't imagine it any other way with a man.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry yo– your friend had to go through that.”

There was a little fault in the bedsheet, a knot in the fine linen. Silver focused on that, rubbing his thumb over it again and again, even as his chest burned with tension, with fear, with age-old grief.

“It's all right,” Silver said. “He's dead now, he doesn't give a shit anymore.”

“I do want you to know that nothing like that's going to happen with me.” Flint's features were sharp, intense, earnest. “Ever.”

Silver swallowed on the lump in his throat. Perhaps he was insane, but he believed Flint. Oh, Flint wouldn't hesitate to kill him, snap his neck like he had snapped Gates', if that suited his agenda. But if Flint hadn't tried to take advantage even addled by bloodlust, he wasn't likely to ever do it at all. Flint didn't _want_ to take advantage, Silver thought, he wanted a willing partner, like Miranda.

Emboldened by that thought, Silver rolled over to look into Flint's face, a question burning his lips. “But you do actually want to–”

Flint glanced at him. Silver saw his Adam's apple bob. “To kiss you again? To take you to bed and pleasure you? I do.”

If Silver had been standing, he was certain he'd have swooned at Flint's words. _Pleasure him_. Fuck. Silver felt he was blushing, and Flint's cheeks glowed pink, but Flint still stared at him defiantly, unabashed. Never had he expected Flint to be so honest with him.

“Christ, you're mysterious.” Silver chuckled, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “You didn't exactly make that known when the three of us were in bed the other night.”

Flint's mouth split into a lopsided grin. “Well you didn't exactly make it known that you wanted that sort of attention.”

“I still don't know that I truly do,” Silver answered as casually as he could, but he couldn't help smiling.

Flint gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. “Fair enough.”

There was a sound behind them and Silver twisted around with a start. Miranda had stepped into the room, watching them with a warm smile. “Don't stop on my account,” she said, sweeping to her dressing table to remove her clothes.

“Are you comfortable sleeping here?” Flint asked Silver.

Silver nodded. Strange as it seemed, especially given the chaos of emotions he'd gone through that day, he truly was. The bed was warm, he'd finally stopped shaking, and if Silver had learned one thing that day, it was that Flint actually felt safe. Safe enough that Silver slid further towards him, until his cheek was on the pillow close to Flint's arm.

“There's not all that much room in this bed,” Silver said, liar that he was.

“It's a miracle nobody falls out,” Flint agreed, making no attempt to move away from Silver.

Miranda joined them, curling into Silver's back. The press of her body against his made his eyes roll back in his head with a sudden rush of warmth. She kissed the nape of his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder. Then she reached over him to take Flint's hand, tangling her fingers with his.

“Don't you want to be between us?” Silver asked Miranda.

“Certainly not,” Miranda murmured into his ear. “You're our hero tonight, and this is how we'll honour you.”

Silver chuckled, leaning just a little more into Flint, his face closer than ever to his shoulder. Flint smelled good. Silver closed his eyes and let himself be engulfed by the scent of clean linens, and soap, and the salt of Flint's skin; he soon fell into a deep slumber.

* * *

 

Flint ached all over when he awoke the next day. His back and ribs were sore, his arm tingled numbly under what turned out to be Silver's weight, and his face was tender and swollen. “Fucking Hornigold,” he muttered.

“Mm,” Silver agreed, and pressed up closer, burying his face into Flint's neck. Silver's breath on Flint's skin brought on an ache of a different kind, heavy and tight and throbbing.

This was new, this comfortable intimacy, and Flint allowed himself to relish it for a little while. He could barely believe they'd kissed, that Silver had shared his fears with him, that he'd admitted to wanting Silver. But it was done now. As much as Flint had fought getting closer to Silver in the last few days, he welcomed this new development now.

“Where's Miranda?” Flint asked, patting around the empty space beyond Silver.

“Dunno, she got up a while ago.” Silver let out a soft sigh, a happy sound, if Flint was any judge. After the previous days' turmoil, seeing Silver calm and contented like this was a balm to Flint's heart.

“I suppose we should too,” Flint said. His hand, returning from its exploration of Miranda's side of the bed, had decided of its own accord to lightly brush over Silver's curls.

“I suppose,” Silver mumbled. “Or we could wait 'til she comes in and scolds us for being lazy.”

Flint couldn't help but laugh. “Should I remind you we're supposed to set off to get the gold today?”

“What difference would a couple of hours make? If it's still there now, it'll still be there when we get to it. And if it's gone, it's gone.”

“That's dangerous thinking, Mr Silver.” Flint was wrapping a curl around one of his fingers, marvelling at the texture of Silver's hair.

Silver slowly looked up from the nook of Flint's throat. The bright blue of his eyes, the quirk of his lips, stole Flint's breath away. “If I learned anything yesterday, it's that I'm more dangerous than I look.”

“You certainly are.” Flint let go of Silver's hair, trailing the back of his nicked and bruised knuckles lightly over Silver's cheek. All he needed was to shift a little, for Silver to shift a little, and their lips would meet. He could hear their breath in the silent room, a little ragged, yearning, anticipating…

Miranda walked into the room with unusual bad timing. Flint saw a contrite grimace cross her face, then she smiled at them. And then Flint saw what she was wearing.

“I tried to put something together to look the part,” she said. Silver turned around to face her and let out a little gasp.

Over a faded purple petticoat, Miranda was wearing a black velvet coat with golden trim – a prize Flint had brought back from a hunt but had ended up never wearing. It was too ornate for him, but perfect for her. Miranda must have done something to the coat's sleeves and shoulders, and perhaps taken it in at the waist. It fell rather well on her frame, giving her an air of authority.

“Well, aren't you a sight,” Silver murmured appreciatively.

“It's a sort of hunting outfit. Ladies tend to wear coats cut like a man's for hunting, so I thought… is it all right, James?”

To say that she looked striking would have been an understatement. Something about the way the black framed her face and complemented her figure sent fire coursing down Flint's spine.

“Yeah,” he said, keenly aware of how inarticulate that sounded.

“I think he's reconsidering what I said about hanging around here for a few more hours,” Silver said with a knowing grin. And he was right, too.

“Enough with that. Up.” Flint gave him a gentle push, drawing a chuckle from Silver. They both rolled out of bed; Flint was glad for the loose nightshirt concealing his still-stiff cock.

“Don't you worry dear, when we're done with this gold, I fully intend to give you the fucking of a lifetime in this outfit,” Miranda murmured in Flint's ear as he followed Silver out of the room. Her hand meaningfully slid over his arse and Flint stopped in his tracks, face burning as Miranda's words seared themselves in his mind. Fuck, it had been a long time since they'd done what she was suggesting. Much too long.

Silver glanced back at them quizzically when he heard them whispering, and grinned when he saw Flint's face. “Glad to see she has that effect on everyone.”

“She's a force of nature.” Flint bent to kiss Miranda. “And soon a fearsome pirate, too.”

Even as Flint dressed, pulling his dark tunic over his clothes and becoming a pirate again, the pleasant thoughts, the tantalising promises of what might come later, never quite abated. Try as he might to keep his mind only on Nassau, only on the gold, only on revenge, he never quite succeeded.

He was changed. Even though he looked the same, even though he was fierce as ever, he wasn't quite the Captain Flint that had left Nassau in search of the Urca de Lima. Both Silver and Miranda had him under their charm, kept him from fully turning back into the Flint who was all fury and revenge. Perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

They finally got to the beach at a slow pace, the trap packed with their things; Flint, Silver and one of Miranda's retainers walked beside it. Miranda trusted the latter would return the horse and trap to their home, and Flint knew better now than to argue with her. She'd always had a knack to make herself liked by her staff, even in this godforsaken place.

Tension grew, sharp and uncomfortable in Flint's shoulders, as they approached the beach. He saw it on Miranda's face, in the way her brows pulled together, and in Silver's eyes as they darted all around them, as though he was expecting a new ambush. By the time they got to the edge of the beach, they were all silent, wary. Part of Flint felt certain that the whole crew had turned against them, and that they were walking to their doom.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Billy asked as he strode up to them. He was followed by DeGroot, Rackham, Featherstone, and Miss Bonny. On the beach below, Flint could see the Walrus men gathered in a tense little group, while Rackham's men seemed to be milling around, preparing supplies.

“Got ambushed by Hornigold when I was in Nassau yesterday,” Flint replied. “He wanted to bring me to Jamaica and trade me for a pardon.”

“Well, what a coincidence.” Rackham said. “Just last night Augustus and I also ran into some unpleasantness while we were finishing up in Nassau.” Flint raised his eyebrows, encouraging Rackham on – not that Jack Rackham ever needed encouragement to talk. “Mr Featherstone and I would have come to a sticky end if Anne hadn't intervened.”

“Gutted them like pigs before they did any real harm,” Miss Bonny supplied.

“Who attacked you?” Flint asked.

“Well, they were a little too dead to interrogate by the time we thought of asking questions,” Rackham said. “But at least one of them was part of Hornigold's crew.”

“Why do you think he wanted to kill you?” Silver asked. “I mean, as much as bringing Flint to Jamaica would have secured Hornigold a reward, you and Featherstone aren't exactly… you know.”

Rackham raised his eyebrows, obviously miffed. “I'm not sure that I do.”

“Perhaps Hornigold found out that Rackham and Featherstone were working with us,” Flint cut in. “With them gone, their crew might not have followed us, and we'd have been delayed in getting the gold.”

Silver's face twisted into a sour expression. “Are you saying Hornigold wants to get the gold?”

“Either that, or he wants to sell the information to the Governor in Jamaica. That information would be of no use if we got there first.”

“He'd do that? Fuck, what are we waiting for?!” Not a minute ago Silver had been slumping from the walk, but now he was as energised as ever.

“He's not wrong,” Rackham said. “We should get going.”

“Not so fast,” Flint said. “There's a traitor in our midst. Hornigold had a man from my crew with him.”

“Was it Mills?” DeGroot asked. “We noticed he was missing yesterday after you left. Mr Dufresne wouldn't send out people to look for him further than the bay, he said it would just make things more dangerous.”

“Did he?” Flint glanced at Silver, and saw his own suspicions mirrored on Silver's face. “And did you tell Mr Dufresne about the pardons, Billy?”

Billy looked taken aback. “I told several people – Mr DeGroot, Dufresne, Muldoon, Howell. I thought knowing the lengths the Navy was ready to go to would show how determined they were to destroy Nassau. Why?”

“Someone told Hornigold about ten pardons the British were ready to give out to anyone who captured me. He had nine men with him – which suggests there's a tenth still hiding in our crew.”

“And Mills was close to Dufresne,” DeGroot muttered, then he shook his head with a sigh. “We need to investigate this.”

“We're in too much of a hurry,” Flint said. “Especially if Hornigold knows where the gold is.”

“But we can't sail with a quartermaster who might have betrayed us, surely,” Rackham said.

“No, we can't,” Flint said. “I suggest we convince the crew that Mr Featherstone would make a better quartermaster for our combined crews, given Dufresne's current state of health.”

“And since my crew is four times larger than yours and familiar with Augustus, the vote will be quite certain,” Rackham said. “Clever.”

“And what do we do with Dufresne?” DeGroot asked.

Flint shrugged. “We take him with us. Once we have the gold, we'll have plenty of time to find out what part he played in this treachery.”

“I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything but an underhand plan from you, Captain.” DeGroot sniffed. “But all right.”

“It's for the crew's good, Mr DeGroot,” Silver said with a charming grin.

While Billy helped carry luggage down to the beach, Miranda found Howell and enrolled him to examine Dufresne. Flint didn't come too close, but he saw them discussing the state of Dufresne's arm. The concern on her face seemed sincere enough; Dufresne's face twisted sourly as Miranda and Howell discussed his case.

In the meantime, Flint let Silver address the crew, as he was wont to do, and tell them the chilling tale of Hornigold's attack on them and Mills' treachery. There was laughter and disbelief when Silver said they'd fought off eight men – with Flint restrained, no less. Then the crew's eyes turned to Flint, quizzical.

“It's true,” Flint said mildly. “I'd be sailing to Jamaica by now if it wasn't for him.”

“As I've always said, the Captain is essential to our getting the gold so I endeavoured to keep him alive.” Silver gave a grin, and bowed comically at Flint. The crew chuckled, but their disbelief had turned to dismayed respect.

“Besides,” Silver continued, “I'm not fucking ready to get pardoned and slave away on a ship or in a field again for measly wages while the owner gets rich from my labour. Are you?”

There was a chorus of shouts and grumbles from the crew which seemed to mainly be made up of “fuck no” and “I'd rather die”. Silver gave Flint a smug smile, and Flint fought hard not to return it – he had a severe persona to maintain, after all. But Christ, he could have kissed Silver on the spot.

“Bad news, I'm afraid.” This was Howell, who'd just joined them. “Mr Dufresne's injury is badly inflamed and his fever is no better. We may need to amputate him very soon, if he consents to it. In either case, I don't believe that he's up to being Quartermaster on this voyage.”

Flint saw Miranda standing in the distance, a hint of a smile on her lips. Flint wondered if she had persuaded Howell alone, or if they'd simply got lucky with Dufresne's state of health. In any case, Howell's words sent a worried rumble through the crew.

“You're saying we should vote for a new quartermaster right now?” asked Joshua.

“We'll be travelling with Rackham's crew. They already have a quartermaster,” Billy said. “Maybe we could put off voting for a Walrus quartermaster and use Rackham's for this journey.”

Things went fast, after that. Featherstone was confirmed as Quartermaster, longboats were packed with the last supplies from the beach, and they soon rowed out to the warship. Flint didn't much like the fact that the whores from the fuck tent were returning to Nassau, possibly with the location of the gold, but he couldn't have taken them along and had distracted men on warship. Even with Rackham's men they were still a skeleton crew for such a large vessel. The next few days were going to be exhausting.

Dufresne sat opposite Flint on the longboat, pale, sweaty, shivering, dark circles under his eyes and a look of deep resentment on his face. He wisely didn't attempt to make eye contact with Flint. When came the time to climb the rope ladder up into the ship, Dufresne faltered. Flint helped him, pushing him from below when he seemed to flag in his climb. They were nearly at the top when Flint moved up a little, close enough to speak into Dufresne's ear.

“I know what you did, Mr Dufresne. If I were you, I'd pray for the fever to take you quickly.”

Dufresne went paler than he'd already been, sagging beneath Flint. Flint grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him upwards. Silver was above them, he grabbed Dufresne's good hand and hauled him up onto the deck.

“Don't worry, Mr Dufresne,” Silver said, his smile mild, but his eyes ice-cold. “We'll take good care of you.”

As Dufresne stumbled away, sick and terrified, a savage pride filled Flint's heart at the sight of the dangerous smile on Silver's face, at the glimmer in his eye. This was his partner now, and as long as they were together with Miranda, Flint was certain that they would be unstoppable.


	10. Chapter 10

The warship was a fucking citadel, a fortress in its own right.

Silver had been on a few ships, mostly against his will or his better judgment, but he'd never been in anything this size. If he was any judge, neither had most of the crew. There were only 120 of them, and it was barely enough to make sail quickly. How the _Walrus_ survivors has got back to Nassau at all with only twenty men was an absolute mystery to Silver – not that he had all that much knowledge of sailing – but he wasn't surprised that it had taken weeks.

Flint seemed to be everywhere. He was on deck, giving orders and scanning the horizon for threats; in the Captain's cabin, discussing strategies with Rackham, Featherstone, DeGroot and Billy; even up masts, helping the crew. Flint was everywhere, except where Silver would have liked him to be: in the galley or one of the many holds, pressed up against Silver and kissing the breath out of him.

They were going to get the gold, to become richer than they could even imagine, and yet all Silver could think about was Flint. He'd done all of this to get a share of the treasure and now that it was within his grasp, he found himself obsessed with something else, something much more dangerous.

As though Silver's thoughts had summoned him, Flint strode into the galley. The bruises on his face had turned to purple by now, yet he was no less handsome for them. This was their second night, hopefully the last. Flint looked as though he hadn't rested since they'd left, which was likely true. Miranda had suggested as much in the brief moments Silver could snatch to speak with her; even she spent most of her time away from Silver, in the safety of the Captain's cabin.

“Dufresne's dying,” Flint announced, all but dropping onto the bench opposite Silver, who was sitting at a table peeling potatoes.

“Didn't like him no more anyway,” Randall crowed from beside Silver, punctuating his statement by spitting on the floor.

“Is it the fever?” Silver asked casually.

“Yeah.” Flint gave a shrug. “Bound to happen, according to Howell.”

“He did insist on keeping his rotting arm.”

Not that Silver blamed Dufresne; he too would have rather died whole than lived an invalid. They'd all seen how losing a leg had been for Randall, although nobody had seen it quite as vividly as Silver. He'd had to help Randall with the chamberpot again since they'd left New Providence, as Randall still wasn't willing to wear the boot.

Flint just nodded, seeming as unmoved about Dufresne's fate as Silver felt. There was silence in the galley, save the scrape of the knife on potato flesh. Silver glanced up at Flint, glad that he hadn't got up to leave yet, irritated that they had to share this moment with fucking Randall. Flint's eyes slid over Randall, a scowl creasing his face. Perhaps he too had hoped to be alone with Silver.

“Finished!” Randall announced in a discordant sing-song, dropping one last potato into the pot. Sometimes Silver suspected that he used that voice on purpose, just to be obnoxious. Slowly, Randall heaved himself upright and Silver's heart sank at the idea of having to assist him with the pot, again.

“Need help?” Silver forced out.

Randall just gave a rude snort and hobbled down the galley on his crutch, to the cushioned bench where he slept. Silver watched with relief as Randall made Betsy shift from the blanket she was sleeping on and lay down for a rest.

“How are things on deck?” Silver asked, shifting forward slightly at the table to get closer to Flint.

Flint bowed forward, mirroring Silver's movement. “Exhausting, hectic. But I expect we'll arrive tomorrow morning if the weather holds up.”

Silver took in the tension in Flint's features, the pallor of his mouth. “Have you actually slept since we left?”

“Barely,” Flint said. “There's always something to do.”

“I'm surprised Miranda hasn't dragged you to bed yet.” Silver's voice grew lower, even though Randall appeared to be snoring. “I can't imagine she's happy about the lack of company.”

Flint gave a chuckle, somehow moving even closer to Silver, even though there was a table between them. Flint's calf brushed against Silver's, their knees rubbed together, and Silver's eyes dropped closed for a second at the touch. This wasn't the time or place, but Christ did he want Flint to touch him.

“I think she'll hold out another day. Besides, we're sharing the cabin with Rackham, Featherstone, and Miss Bonny.”

Silver snorted. “So? I doubt Miranda would mind the lack of privacy.”

“Perhaps not, but I would.” Flint's teeth glinted in the gloom, a devilish smile if Silver had ever seen one. “I'm very picky about who gets to see me fuck.”

“Oh.” Silver's mouth was terribly dry all of a sudden, both at Flint's words and the gentle nudge he gave Silver's knee. God this was unbearable. Why hadn't they done this sooner, when they were in Miranda's house and didn't have to hide from more than a hundred men?

It would have been wise for Silver not to press this any further. From the glint in Flint's gaze it was obvious that he too was brimming with barely repressed lust. Oh, to steal even a few minutes with him in a quiet corner… Silver's mind was still haunted by what Flint had told him the night before they'd left.

“Captain?” Silver's voice was low and husky, more a plea than a question. “When you told me you wanted to pleasure me…” Flint's tongue briefly flicked out, running over his lower lip, and the air between them grew thick. “When you told me that, what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Is this the time and place to be discussing it?” Flint asked, but his tone was far from chiding. He glanced towards Randall, who was snoring with his back to them, the cat curled up on his hip.

“Probably not,” Silver conceded with a sheepish grin. “It's just… I've been wondering about it.”

“Has it been keeping you up at night?” Flint asked, straight-faced.

Silver chuckled, unsure whether Flint's innuendo was intentional or accidental. “You could say that.”

Flint's hand had been subtly shifting on the table. Now it met Silver's, fingers brushing against his. The touch sent a jolt right into Silver's cock.

“I'd like to use my hands,” Flint said in a low murmur, lightly rubbing a fingertip along Silver's index finger. Flint's eyes were dark with lust and Silver doubted he could have been more aroused if Flint had been touching his cock. “Exploring, touching, teasing… seeking out those hidden places that make a man writhe with want.”

Silver had to choke down a desperate moan. He was getting obscenely hard, his cock swelling along his trouser leg. Flint knew it, Silver suspected. His smile said as much.

“And then I'd let my mouth do the exploring,” Flint finished, suggestively rubbing one of Silver's fingers between his thumb and forefinger.

Silver could barely breathe. “You… you'd do _that_? With your mouth?”

Flint grinned at him, nostrils flaring, a blush blooming on his cheeks. “To the last drop,” he whispered.

It was all Silver could do not to whimper. Flint's warm fingers still rubbed his, eyes plunging deep into Silver's. Silver grew light-headed. He screwed his eyes shut with a little chuckle, forcing himself to take a deep breath. God, this man! This man who'd been cold and abrupt and distant, and now, now–

“Captain?”

Howell had just burst into the galley and Silver nearly jumped out of his skin, drawing his hand away from Flint's. Flint, much to his credit, barely moved. He turned slowly, silent, waiting for Howell to speak.

“If any of you would like to see Mr Dufresne before he, ah, departs, now would be the time,” Howell said.

“Thank you, doctor,” Flint said. “I'll see him shortly.”

Howell nodded and hurried back out.

“In death as in life, Dufresne has terrible timing,” Flint muttered, standing up. “But I suppose it's my duty to listen to my Quartermaster's last words. As I said, always something to do on this fucking ship.”

Silver could only manage a weak sound of agreement, desperately trying not to suffocate with lust as he watched Flint stride out of the galley.

* * *

 

Flint stood in the sand before the open belly of the _Walrus_ , staring into the deep cavern of her hold. It felt as though he were dreaming. All around him, hammers pounded, men called out to each other, and wood creaked and groaned.

“Captain?”

Flint shook himself and turned to DeGroot. By the irritable look on the man's face, this wasn't the first time he'd called Flint.

“Mr DeGroot?” Flint replied levelly, hoping his tone would conceal the fact that his mind was drifting, that he was practically sleepwalking after days of toil.

“I said, we're lucky the replacement masts didn't take any damage. We're bringing them out now.”

Flint nodded numbly. “Good. How long until she's sea-worthy?”

“There's still work to do on the hull, as you may have noticed.” There wasn't a trace of humour on DeGroot's dry features. “We're getting there. We might even be done by tomorrow.”

Flint turned towards the other end of the beach. Beyond the wild hills separating the bay where the _Walrus_ lay from the beach where the _Urca_ had wrecked, Flint knew that dozens of men were milling around like ants, collecting gold in bags and coffers, under Billy and Rackham's supervision.

That too seemed like a dream.

They'd approached the Floridian coast just before dawn. When the sun had risen, bright and rosy, the beach beside the _Urca_ had lit up with a thousand glittering lights. Gold. Gold piled up neatly, gold still strewn around the sand, gold in coffers, gold spilling out of the _Urca_ 's remains.

And guarding that gold, a couple dozen men, all of them shivering and sweating – much like Dufresne had shivered and sweated before he'd gone cold and still. Many more men were lying in makeshift shelters, too sick to move. A little further, in a neat row, lay the bodies of those who had succumbed to their fever.

It was as though the gold had wanted to wait for Flint.

With a grunt, Flint rubbed his face, willing himself out of this daydream. The sun was setting on the camp they'd made beside the _Walrus_ , far from the diseased Spaniards. Whatever ailed them, the Spaniards had likely caught it from foul air or water. The less time Flint's men spent on that beach, the better.

“You're exhausted.”

Miranda had sidled up next to Flint, and he barely managed to suppress a start. It felt as though he'd been jolted awake.

“What gave it away?” he asked with a smirk.

Miranda chuckled and rubbed a hand between his shoulder-blades. She looked better than she had in days. Flint had forgotten how long it had taken Miranda to get her sea legs, when they'd crossed over from England. She'd spent most of their recent voyage green around the gills, in spite of the fair weather.

“You need to rest, James. I don't believe you've slept more than a few hours since we left.”

“We're not finished here,” he said. “A Spanish ship could show up at any time – or an English one, for that matter.”

“I'm aware,” Miranda said. “And how well do you think you can make battle plans if you're walking around in a daze?”

Flint grunted. “Fine. I'll sleep when the last of the men are back from the _Urca_ wreck.”

“All right,” Miranda said. Her tone suggested that she would have preferred he slept sooner rather than later, but had chosen not to argue further. Flint was thankful. It wouldn't look good for him to sleep while the men were still working, and if Miranda had insisted, he wasn't certain that he would have been able to resist.

Night was falling when Silver walked over the hills, among the last men travelling back from the _Urca_ wreck. His teeth glinted in the dying light, the satisfied grin on his face making butterflies burst into Flint's stomach.

In spite of the thousand worries swarming Flint's mind at any given moment, thoughts of Silver were never very far. They'd been sharp, insistent, when they'd first sailed out, and had progressively dulled to a pleasant buzz with Flint's growing exhaustion.

“He looks like the cat that got the cream,” Miranda commented. Flint wasn't sure whether she'd been hovering beside him all this time, or whether she'd left and returned. He truly needed to sleep.

And then a sinking feeling squeezed at Flint's chest. Silver had the gold he'd come for. Nothing tied him to Flint or Miranda any longer. It may yet take a while to leave the beach and distribute the gold, but after that–

As though she knew what thoughts were going through his head, Miranda found Flint's hand and squeezed it. “Stop worrying,” she murmured. “I'm not letting him go anywhere, once this is over. Nor do I believe that he truly wants to leave us.”

Flint gave a non-committal grunt and made his way to Randall for some food. When Silver settled on a rock close to him, a strange feeling of peace stole over Flint, as though his bones were warmer, his taut muscles softer. Sleep was calling, and Flint only resisted its siren's call until he'd finished his food. Soon after, he slung up a hammock for himself in the belly of the _Walrus_ and was asleep the moment he lay down.

Dawn was barely breaking when Flint awoke with a jolt, swaddled in his bedding. Aside from soft snores from the crew sleeping in hammocks around him, all was silent. With a shaky breath, Flint slid out of the hammock and climbed the ladder up to the decks.

He'd stayed away from the captain's cabin until then. When Flint opened the door, he found the room much like he'd left it, apart from books and small objects strewn around the floor in the wake of the battle with the warship. There was no trace of Flint's most heinous crime, but he knew exactly where he'd crouched when he'd squeezed and snapped the life out of Gates.

Dufresne had visited Flint while he slept, a memory more than a dream. He'd been pallid, eyes sunken but burning like hot coals behind his round glasses, hatred written all over his face. The last words he'd exchanged with Flint should have made no impact, and yet Flint's mind had played them over and over again as he slept.

 _I'm not sorry_ , Dufresne had told Flint, his voice barely louder than a breath. _I'd have betrayed you a thousand times over. You may be powerful, and persuasive, but I know what you are, Captain:_ _you're_ _n_ _othing but a villain. Nothing but a demon dragging your men off one by one into hell._ _May you rot there for your sins._

Flint stared at the spot where Gates had lain, and shuddered.

The remaining _Walrus_ crew had buried Gates at sea before they'd left with the warship. Flint wasn't sure whether to be grateful not to have to see his rotting corpse, or whether he was angry to have been denied an opportunity to face what he had done. An opportunity to ask for forgiveness.

An ache was welling up in Flint's chest, deep and dark as the ocean. They had the gold now, but at what cost? It had been easy to ignore that cost as long as they were striving to get to the _Urca_ wreck, but now that they had the treasure…

“Captain?”

Flint turned around to find Silver standing at the cabin's door.

“Oh, good. For a moment I thought you'd been sleepwalking,” Silver said with an uncertain smile. His gaze swept over Flint again, curious, thoughtful. “Are you all right?”

“I was thinking about Mr Gates.”

“Ah.” Silver closed the door behind him and picked his way through the room, stopping beside Flint so that they were shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the place where Gates had last lain.

“I can't say I'm sorry for most of what I did to get where I am now,” Flint said. “But Gates… Gates was my friend.”

“Did someone have words with you about him?” Silver asked, ever astute.

“Mr DeGroot told me in quite a lot of detail how they'd said their goodbyes to him. And Dufresne, well, he was rather emphatic about my villainy when I talked to him before he died.”

“Dufresne, who would have betrayed the crew he supposedly held so dear in order to get a pardon and a share of blood-money.” Silver smiled wryly when Flint looked over at him.

“I suppose you have a point.”

“I certainly do. And if Dufresne hadn't pressured Gates to go up against you, who knows how things might have turned out.”

A hint of a smile curled Flint's lips. “You're quite the sweet-talker.”

“You've always known that.” Silver leaned closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed together. He next spoke right into Flint's ear, beguiling as a siren. “I'm also absolutely right.”

Flint turned to face Silver, slowly, as though he were still in a dream. In the dim light before dawn, Silver's face was soft around the edges, his eyes wide and glimmering. Silver swallowed hard, his smug expression giving way to something more open, vulnerable, _wanting_.

“Look, I know what I said about you not even a few days ago,” Silver murmured, shifting closer to Flint. “You may be England's villain, and Vane's and Dufresne's and Hornigold's and many others'. None of that matters, though.”

“Doesn't it?”

“Not to me. Because you're not a villain to me, Captain.” Slowly, tentatively, Silver's hands smoothed over Flint's shirt. Flint barely dared to breathe. “You were never a villain to me… for what that's worth.”

They stood frozen for a moment in the wake of Silver's confession. Until he heard those words spoken, Flint hadn't realised how much value they'd hold for him. They set a fire in his chest, both aching and warm, flooding him with relief and passion all at once.

Flint reached out to stroke his thumb along Silver's cheekbone, to run the back of his fingers down Silver's slightly stubbly cheek. Silver gave a sigh, closing his eyes, leaning into the touch as though he'd been longing for it for an eternity. It certainly felt to Flint as though he'd been waiting an eternity to touch Silver.

Then Silver's hands slid upwards, wrapping around the back of Flint's neck, and Flint leaned in without hesitation. The kiss was soft at first, Silver sighing deeply into Flint's mouth, breath hot on Flint's tongue as they kissed lightly, lips exploring and discovering. Flint drew Silver closer, wrapping his arms around his waist.

Then, with a flick of Silver's tongue against Flint's lower lip, passion ignited like a wildfire. Flint sucked Silver's lower lip between his and Silver moaned nearly obscenely. Flooded with lust, barely able to catch his breath, Flint pressed Silver closer to him, kissing and sucking and teasing with his tongue, revelling in the whimpers and gasps he drew from Silver's mouth.

Silver's hands roamed down Flint's back, exploring, greedy. They were good hands, large and strong, teasing shivers out of Flint when they ran down his spine. Those hands finally landed on Flint's hips, guiding them flush against Silver's, encouraging Flint to press up against him. Flint moaned into Silver's mouth, his hardening cock twitching in his breeches, growing harder still as he felt Silver's erection rub against his thigh.

They worked each other into a frenzy, rutting together, Flint's hand tangling in Silver's curls while he kissed all along Silver's throat. Pleasure coursed through him with the hum of each of Silver's moans against his lips, with the sensation of Silver trembling as he clung to him, squeezing Flint's arse in his palms.

“Fuck, Captain,” Silver moaned into Flint's ear. His hands slid along the side of Flint's thighs, and moved to the front of Flint's breeches. “May I…?” he asked breathlessly, toying with the buttons.

“Yes,” Flint ground out, shuddering with nerves and want.

Silver made quick work of the buttons, sucking fervently at Flint's lips as he did so. Then his fingers brushed Flint's cock, delicately pulled it out from the folds of Flint's tucked shirt, drew it out into his hand. Flint squeezed his eyes closed against the onslaught of sensation, swallowing down a whine when Silver's fingers closed around him and gave a tentative tug. Flint couldn't help but buck into his grip.

“You know when we were both in Miranda?” Silver murmured into Flint's ear, his voice and words both making Flint grow even stiffer, even more desperate. “And I could feel you against me?”

Flint swallowed hard and gave a nod, fingers digging lightly into Silver's scalp.

“I want to feel you against me again,” Silver said, chasing Flint's lips for a hungry kiss. “Skin to skin this time.”

“God, yes,” Flint moaned into Silver's mouth.

Silver made quick work of opening his own trousers, even as Flint directed him to the desk that was still bolted in the middle of the cabin. Silver gave Flint a grin and propped himself against the tabletop, drawing out his fucking delicious cock. It was all Flint could do not to sink to his knees and suck him off right there and then.

But then he was pressed up against Silver, rubbing his cock along Silver's length, and he could barely think at all, his mind a haze of long-forgotten sensations and long-neglected lust. Silver's large hand wrapped around both of them, squeezing them tight together. Flint moaned aloud, rutting into the tight space, revelling in the heavenly slipperiness of Silver's precum leaking onto the heads of their cocks.

And it was too much. It was too good, it was too entrancing, it had been too fucking long. Flint's hips moved of their own accord while Silver devoured his mouth, sliding his tongue inside in lewd thrusts, faster and faster, in an unstoppable rhythm.

Flint came with a strangled cry, spilling into Silver's fist in shuddering spurts. Silver gasped against his skin, slowing his hand over their cocks as Flint softened.

“Sorry,” Flint mumbled when his mind cleared enough for him to realise that he'd just spent himself much too soon. He chuckled at the realisation, shaking his head. “Last thing I'd expect was to finish first.”

“Why's that?” Silver asked with a bemused smile.

“I've been having trouble finishing at all for years,” Flint said, nudging Silver's hand away so that he could wrap his fingers around Silver's cock. “Miranda'll think it's hilarious.”

Silver didn't seem to think it was hilarious. He moaned into Flint's mouth as Flint kissed him, jerking up into his palm. “You're saying you wanted me so badly that you…?”

“Could be,” Flint murmured, squeezing Silver tighter in his fist, feeling Silver tense under him, watching his balls draw upwards. “You felt so fucking good,” he whispered into Silver's ear. “So hard and hot and slick.”

That tipped Silver over the edge. He threw his head back in a silent cry as he bucked up into Flint's grip, his seed seeping between Flint's fingers. Flint stroked Silver through his pleasure, pressing soft kisses to his lips while Silver gasped and whined.

They stood tangled together against the table, gasping, foreheads touching lightly. Dawn had broken in the meantime; its rosy light glinted in Silver's eyes, making them glitter like jewels.

After a while, Silver chuckled. “Christ, we didn't even lock the fucking door.”

Flint glanced at the door and gave a snort. “Imagine Rackham walking in, in the middle of some tirade or another.”

“I don't think he'd interrupt one of his tirades just because he found us pleasuring each other.”

“Fair point,” Flint murmured, and pressed a kiss to Silver's lips. “But we should still lock that door.”

“Should we?” Silver looked delighted. “Do you think we still have time to, uh… explore our partnership?”

Flint smirked. “And perhaps get the timing right this time.”

“In all fairness I nearly lost it when you came,” Silver said, his voice low and rough. Flint bent to kiss him deeply, hunger stirring in him again.

“Captain?” Billy's voice called out in the distance.

Flint jerked back like he'd been stung. Silver merely groaned as Flint drew away from him, straightening. They exchanged glances, and Silver's face split into a grin.

“Go,” he said. “Once Billy's bent on finding you, there's no chance of escape.”

Flint snorted, wiping his hands on his shirt tails and tucking himself back into his breeches. “All right. But we're certainly not done.”

“We're absolutely not done,” Silver confirmed with a toothy grin.

Flint watched him for a moment, sprawled on the desk with his shirt in disarray, hair mussed, sweat slicking his skin, and his trousers open, exposing his soft cock for the world to see. He was indecent; Flint could barely resist the temptation to return to him, Billy be damned.

Silver must have noticed Flint staring, because he raised an eyebrow and gave a somewhat uncertain smile. He looked so vulnerable in that brief moment that Flint did return to him, but only to press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

“Later,” he told Silver, and strode off before Silver's hold on him became so great that he was unable to leave.

* * *

 

It would all be over soon.

Miranda marvelled at the thought as she supervised the weighing of each sack of gold and took down the numbers in the accounts book. This was the last phase – most men were already aboard the warship, readying it to leave. It would soon be over, and then what next? Her mind overflowed with dreams that could perhaps come true. Now that they had the gold, everything seemed possible, even tearing James away from that wretched island and finding a happier life.

“Thank you, Mr Dobbs,” Miranda said with a smile as Mr Dobbs placed a heavy bag on the table before Miranda. “Now are you certain that all the gold you collected is in this bag?”

Miss Bonny, who'd been lurking behind Miranda on the warship's deck, shifted subtly. She'd been assigned to make sure that Miranda could safely confront sailors who'd decided to smuggle away gold for themselves.

“Well where else would I have put it?”

Miranda smiled pleasantly. “There's a bulge in your pocket, sir, and while I would be terribly flattered if it was for my benefit, the other sort of bulge doesn't usually jingle. At least not in my experience.”

Raucous laughter erupted from the line of sailors behind Dobbs, whose eyes went hard although his ears went bright red. Someone slapped his shoulder, another sailor called out “it's a fair cop!”

“You have keen eyes, Mrs Barlow.” Dobbs reluctantly delved into his pocket and placed a handful of coins on the table. Miranda waited, still smiling. After a while, he turned the pocket out, and a few more coins fell onto the table.

“Splendid,” she said. In the background, she could already see a few men discreetly moving coins from their clothing back into the sacks where they belonged. “Now don't worry, Mr Dobbs, you will receive exactly the share that was discussed when you embarked on this trip. All of you will be rich men.”

“Yeah, no need to be greedy,” shouted out Joshua, whom Miranda had seen emptying coins out of a pouch on his belt not a moment earlier.

“Sails!” came a panicked cry from the crow's nest. “Sails approaching from starboard!”

There was a collective groan. James, who had been overseeing the gold's storage in the hold, rushed on deck, his long leather coat flapping about him. “Spyglass,” he demanded, and someone hurried to bring him one.

Rackham and Featherstone soon joined him. Miranda only heard snatches of their conversation, but it sounded as though the ship was from the Spanish Armada, likely coming from Cuba. James' face crumpled with fury, his whole body taut with nerves.

“Look, we have 120 cannons,” Rackham said, panic tingeing his usual condescending tone. “That's four times their firepower as far as I can count. Surely we can handle them.”

“Except that they'll move,” James said, “and fast. They're smaller and lighter than us, and they're fully manned. We're a skeleton crew, clumsy and slow. We can't manoeuvre and shoot at them at the same time.”

“Well once we've made sail, we could employ some of the riggers below deck, couldn't we?”

Miranda couldn't follow the conversation beyond that, but she could see worry grow on James' face. He glanced at her, and horror swept through his eyes, draining his face of colour.

“Is there any way we could use the _Walrus_?” John asked. He'd slipped out of the galley and somehow managed to mingle with the leaders of both crews. James nearly started when John spoke, and then he looked at him curiously, relaxing somewhat.

“I mean,” John continued, “we do have two ships at hand. And the _Walrus_ is easier to man, isn't it?”

“We don't have time to move the gold to the _Walrus_ ,” James said. “It took a whole day to get it here, and they'll be upon us in an hour or two. The _Walrus_ isn't quite ready to sail, either.”

“But perhaps we don't need to move the gold,” Rackham said. “Only to protect the warship and get rid of that threat. Can the _Walrus_ be ready in a couple hours?”

“Perhaps.” James stared thoughtfully at the horizon, standing tall, calculating.

John looked over at Miranda, fear etched all over his features, and gave her a tense grin.

For what felt like ages, James disappeared into his cabin with Rackham, while Miranda resumed her duties. By the time James reappeared, Miranda could make out the Spanish ship on the horizon. James strode to her, drawing her aside.

“I'm taking enough men to man the _Walrus_ ,” he told her, taking her hands in his. “We're going to go out and fight that ship as soon as we're ready. I want you to stay here and take shelter in the cabin if there's any sort of confrontation. It should be safer than with me.”

Miranda didn't at all like the sound of “it should be safer”, but gave a nod. “What about John?”

“He'll stay with you in the cabin. Rackham, Miss Bonny, and some of Rackham's gunners are staying too. They should be able to defend the ship for a while, though it probably won't come to that.”

Again, Miranda noted the “should” and “for a while”. She squeezed James' hands. “You'll be careful, of course. You'll do your utmost to stay alive.”

James grinned at her and there was danger there, rising bloodlust sharp on his teeth. “As always, my sweet.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, and went to join Featherstone to address the men.

It wasn't long before the men left on the longboats. The warship was anchored in the bay where the _Urca_ was beached, to protect the wreck. To any outsider approaching the bay, it appeared that the warship was doing her intended job as an escort. Now, the warship also provided cover – James and his men could row out to the beach without being seen by the approaching ship, then join the _Walrus_ by land.

At the moment, the _Walrus_ wasn't fully rigged. Miranda knew little of ships, but desperately hoped that James knew hadn't underestimated how much time they needed, or how fast the other ship was approaching. She watched mournfully as James landed on the beach by the _Urca_ , glanced back at the warship, then made off into the brush. Miranda returned to her duties, chest as heavy as if she were being smothered by an anvil.

The Spanish ship was still approaching. When Rackham deemed it was getting close enough for the Spaniards to see them, he ushered everyone away into the cabin, keeping watch through the windows. Miranda could hear him muttering to himself nervously, then John joined the conversation and their voices lowered further.

“Do you speak Spanish?” John suddenly asked Miranda.

“Well… _h_ _ablo un poco de español_ ,” she responded.

John's face puckered in a grimace. Admittedly, Miranda's accent wasn't all that good. “But I know you can read it. Can you understand it when it's spoken?”

“Not too badly. Why are you asking?”

“For the moment they probably still believe that we're Spanish, and I'd like to keep it that way. If they reach us before the _Walrus_ sails, we need to keep them thinking that for as long as possible.”

The prospect of being in close range of a ship with a couple hundred men, when there were barely a couple dozen of them, filled Miranda's stomach with dread. Only now did she realise the absolute folly of her asking to sail with James.

“Hey, it'll be all right.” John took both her hands in his, staring into her eyes. “He'll come for us, I'm sure of it.”

“If he has his way, he will,” Miranda said with a wan smile. If his crew followed him. If they finished their repairs on time. If the Spaniards didn't sink the _Walrus_ first.

“In the meantime, will you be my wife?” Miranda's mouth dropped open. John chuckled and waved his hands pacifyingly. “Will you be _Doña_ Miranda to my Spanish lord?”

Miranda chuckled weakly. “I suppose. Am I to follow your lead?”

John flashed her his most charming grin. “I'm still working out the details, but I'll let you know shortly.” With that, John hurried back to perfect his plan with Rackham.

There were clothes on the warship. The crew, including Rackham, hurriedly pulled on spare sailor's outfits cut in the Spanish style. John picked out a few pieces from the Captain's wardrobe to give himself the appearance of a rich nobleman. The waistcoat, the jacket, the cravat – John seemed to suddenly grow from a modest sailor to a respectable nobleman. It was more than the clothes; his whole demeanour changed, took on an air of benevolent authority.

When the men cleared the cabin, still bouncing ideas off each other about how to best utilise their resources, Miranda pulled on one of the better dresses she'd taken along. She'd never expected to wear it at sea, and still hoped that it wouldn't come to that. Surely, James would surge out with the _Walrus_ any moment now and sink the approaching ship.

He didn't. The Spanish ship grew closer and closer, and John stepped on deck alone, signalling at the Spanish sailors. The weight on Miranda's chest grew suffocating; she was both frozen and overheating at the same time.

“We've got a plan.”

Miranda gave a start as Miss Bonny appeared in the Captain's cabin. She was also wearing a Spanish sailor's clothes, her hair tied back and half-hidden under her hat.

“I'm listening,” Miranda said.

“You and Silver go out and greet them. Not sure what he's gonna tell them, some sort of bullshit, but follow his lead. All of us will be on the lower deck, pretending to be Spanish sailors, sick with a fever.”

Miranda nodded. “So we're supposedly very vulnerable.” They were _actually_ very vulnerable too. She'd heard Rackham say they could easily set off the cannons once, but they wouldn't be able to manoeuvre if the Spanish ship moved, nor would they be able to reload more than ten at a time.

“Keep 'em talking,” Miss Bonny said. “Keep the farce up as long as you can.”

“What are you going to do?”

Miss Bonny shrugged. “Whatever they need me to do.” She looked Miranda up and down. “You armed, under there?”

“I have a pair of loaded pistols strapped under my petticoat.” Miranda pulled the slit of her pocket open, revealing the belt she'd tied over her skirts.

“Not bad,” Miss Bonny said, eyeing her critically.

Voices rose over the sea now. John answered back in what sounded like very fluent Spanish indeed. The approaching ship seemed to have been sent to explore the coast and find the _Urca_ wreck. There were cheers when John told them that the wreck was right behind them.

“Looks like it's time for you to do your thing,” Miss Bonny said. “Don't fuck up, yeah?”

On these encouraging words, Miss Bonny disappeared down a ladder to the lower decks. Miranda took a deep breath and stepped out of the cabin, walking calmly and regally towards John. She stood beside him and gave a small, modest smile at the people staring at her from the Spanish ship. It had been a long time since she'd played the dutiful wife.

The Spaniards came to a stop beside the warship and identified themselves as the _Esperanza_. John leaned over the railing to speak to their leader, Captain Gomez.

“Thank God you found us!” John exclaimed. “Most of us fell sick with a fever when we went to salvage the _Urca_ 's gold. Both our crew and the _Urca_ 's are either dead or sick!”

Miranda was glad that her Spanish was good enough for her to follow John's explanations. She also marvelled at the fact that none of this was a lie. John had simply slipped into the mindset of another man, had made the Spaniards' circumstances his own, had _become_ his character. How easy it seemed for him. Miranda would have been fascinated, if she hadn't been frozen with terror.

There was some discussion on the _Esperanza_ between Captain Gomez and his officers. After a while, Gomez turned back to John and asked him to have a gangplank set up. Miranda didn't miss the way John's Adam's apple bobbed at the prospect, but he hurried to comply. Or rather, he fumbled inexpertly with the gangplank, taking much longer than a sailor would have to deploy it.

He was trying to spare time, but still the _Walrus_ was nowhere to be seen. By the time James got to them, they might all be captured – or worse.

An officer and another man finally crossed over to the warship. John received them gracefully, introducing himself as Juan Da Silva, and Miranda as his wife. Miranda nodded politely and mutely as the two men introduced themselves with deep bows. The first was _Teniente_ Gaspar, a lieutenant on the _Esperanza_. He was like most officers Miranda had met: haughty and formal. The other was Doctor Fernandez, a little balding man with a leather bag clinking with bottles.

Miranda recognised the look of panic that flashed briefly on John's face when the doctor asked where the sick were being kept. Clearly, he hadn't expected an actual physician to board their ship. But John quickly composed his features again into a good-natured smile.

“Our sick are on the gun deck,” John said. “Are you certain you want to go there? It's beneath you, Lieutenant, to see the, ah, filth down there.”

While Miranda could understand John perfectly well, Gaspar spoke fast and barely enunciated. He said that he was used to worse, or something to that effect. Obviously, he would not be deterred. John led the men towards the lower deck, his smile as false as Miranda had ever seen it.

Miranda took two steps down to the gun deck and practically retched. A foul odour filled the space, as though all excretions from man and beast had been poured across the room. The slightly moist floor suggested that the sailors had used bilge-water to produce this sickening effect. Miranda didn't want to know what else they had done to make the scene more believable, nor did she want to set foot on the floor.

Hammocks hung on the lower deck, around and between cannons. Most of the remaining men lay in them, huddled, groaning, coughing and generally putting on quite a show. Rackham and Randall moved around the deck, pretending to tend to the men. Rackham gave the officer and physician a polite nod as John introduced them. Randall said nothing, but pushed a spoonful of gruel into a man's mouth, making him splutter and spit all over the floor.

The physician launched into a stream of questions, of which Miranda only understood a handful. He wanted to know how long the men had been sick, if they had a fever, and – Miranda guessed from the way he looked at the filthy floor as he asked questions – whether their stomachs or bowels were affected by the disease. Rackham answered with a nod or a simple _si_ or _no_ , sometimes repeating a word with some skill.

“This man has no fever,” the physician muttered as he bent to examine one of the men, who shrank away in his hammock, groaning feebly.

“Lieutenant,” John said quickly and loudly, perhaps hoping to cover the physician's words, “would you please wait with us on the main deck? The smell is making my wife ill.”

The man agreed with a gruff nod and they climbed back up. Gaspar called over to his ship in curt sentences. Miranda thought she heard him talk about the squalor on the lower deck, but then the word _investigación_ was pronounced, as well as the name Juan Da Silva. Captain Gomez repeated the name in a suspicious tone that made Miranda's stomach lurch. She wasn't reassured when Gaspar turned back towards them, face knotted in a hard, thoughtful expression.

“It's worse on the beach,” John told him, pointing out the beach beyond the warship. “We had to leave them there, they weren't strong enough to be brought back.”

Lieutenant Gaspar turned to the port side of the warship and surveyed the beach. The men there were barely able to crawl, but some of them seemed to be conscious and perhaps even aware that a second ship had arrived. Gaspar reported this to Captain Gomez, who promptly dispatched men to the _Esperanza_ 's longboats.

“Are you sure, Captain?” John cried out after them, knowing as well as Miranda did that the moment the Spaniards spoke with the survivors on the beach, they'd know this was all a ruse. “The air on the beach is very unclean, your men may get sick too!”

They ignored him entirely. Miranda watched with a sinking feeling as a longboat was lowered into the water, and the Spaniards rowed off towards the beach.

“Juan Da Silva,” Gomez said softly, turning back to John. “The name is known to us.”

“Is it?” John said with a chuckle. “I'm certainly not the most famous man in my family.”

“Where do you come from?”

  
“Toledo. I was picked up by the _Urca de Lima_ after pirates attacked my ship.”

“Really?”

“We nearly sank,” John explained. “If it hadn't been for the Captain of this ship–”

“Does he live?”

“No. He died on the beach.”

“What was his name?”

John's mouth dropped open. He didn't know; neither did Miranda. James would have known it, perhaps. Miranda longed for him to appear, yet the horizon remained empty as ever.

“A man calling himself Juan Da Silva appeared in St Augustine.” Gaspar's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “And he stole a vessel there.”

Gaspar's eyes had grown hard and narrow; John paled. Miranda felt as though her limbs had filled with ice, in spite of the leaden sun beating down on her.

The lieutenant drew his sword, pointing it menacingly at John's throat, its tip grazing his flesh. “No more lies, thief,” he said. “Who are you?”

John gave a laugh, raising his hands in surrender. “Me? I'm just a thief, Lieutenant. I saw gold, I saw an occasion, and I grasped it.”

“And the men below deck? Why is my physician not returning?” Gaspar asked in a growl.

It was obvious why. A fever could not be faked. When the physician had realised that the men below deck weren't truly sick, he must have been restrained, perhaps killed. The thought brought Miranda no pleasure, only growing horror.

John simply smiled and gave a shrug. “There are a lot of men to examine. There truly is disease on that beach.”

It was plain on Gaspar's face that he was still trying to assess the situation, still unsure if he'd merely found a thief taking advantage of a sick crew, or if he'd walked into a trap. Then his eyes fell onto Miranda.

“And you? Who are you?”

Miranda made no answer, frozen, mute. The little Spanish she knew had entirely vanished from her mind, leaving her tongue-tied and choking for breath.

“Are you truly his wife?”

There was movement in the background. The prow of a great ship surged out of from behind the hills, sails bright white against the sky. The ice in Miranda's limbs dissolved, giving way to a fire she'd never expected to find there, as she spied James' flag flying over the _Walrus_.

“Who are you? Speak, woman!” Gaspar snarled.

“I am Miranda Barlow,” Miranda snarled back at him, Spanish words coming to her in a sudden rush. “I am an Englishwoman. I am a widow. And I am Captain Flint's companion!”

Gaspar's face contorted in shock and fury at the sound of James' name, just as a voice a voice rose from the _Esperanza_ 's crow nest, shrill with panic. “ _P_ _iratas_!”

“Captain!” Gaspar called out, even as the men on the _Esperanza_ flocked to the starboard side of their ship to get a better view of the _Walrus_ coming into the bay. Gaspar half-turned away from them, sword still trained on John. “Captain we're betr–”

Miranda's hand reflexively dug into her pocket, coming out with a pistol. She squeezed the trigger and was nearly deafened by the shot. Gaspar screamed, blood spraying all over the deck from a hole in his belly, his sword clattering to the floor. John rushed him and shoved him overboard.

Alerted by the commotion, several men climbed onto the gangplank. One was reaching for John, and Miranda pulled out her other pistol. She missed, but the man slipped when he tried to duck and fell off the plank, pulling another man down with him.

John grabbed Gaspar's sword off the floor and slammed it down onto the ropes holding the gangplank in place, even as more men tried to climb it. Miranda stood frozen on the deck as men jump across from the _Esperanza_ , grabbing netting and ropes on the sides of the warship.

Before she had time to collect herself, someone roughly pushed her towards the Captain's cabin; Miranda nearly lost her balance.

“Don't just fucking stand there!” Miss Bonny growled at Miranda before speeding off, followed by a few of Rackham's men, to do away with the men who were boarding the ship.

John joined Miranda, pulling her into the cabin and locking the doors. Just as they were pushing a heavy crate in front of the door to block it, cannons went off in the distance, followed by cries and orders on the _Esperanza_.

Miranda all but sagged against the barricade, suddenly completely drained. She'd shot a man, likely killed him. The thought made her queasy. More men were invading their ship; more men were dying.

“Jesus Christ, I hadn't expected it to go like that!” John said with a chuckle, running his hands over his face. There was a gash on his arm, and grazes on his fingers, the same kind James acquired after punching someone.

The cabin was quiet; if there were still Spaniards on the deck, they were likely too busy with Miss Bonny to be trying to force their way in. Although Miranda's limbs felt leaden and numb, she heaved herself up and went to look outside from one of the portholes.

“The _Esperanza_ 's leaving,” she said. “Going after the _Walrus_.”

“They know we can't move, so they don't think we're much of a threat,” John said, coming up beside her, watching as the _Esperanza_ manoeuvred to better reach the _Walrus_. “Which might turn out to be their greatest mistake yet.”

Cannons went off deep in the belly of their ship. Miranda felt their vibration in her legs, dull and far away at first, then rising and rising as cannons on all three levels started going off. Beside her, John smiled brightly and wrapped his hand around hers, lacing their fingers together, squeezing gently. “Fucking big mistake.”

The cannon fire from the warship was deafening; it went on and on, until Miranda thought it would never stop. How many cannons had they loaded? How many had gone off? It may have only been a couple dozen, but it sounded like hundreds. The _Esperanza_ wasn't all that far from them, and though she had half-turned away from them, cannonballs tore holes in her hull and smashed her sails.

“Surrender!” screamed James' voice across the waters. The wind carried it to Miranda, and it warmed her heart. “Surrender or we'll sink the lot of you!”

The _Esperanza_ was sinking already, the back of her hull gaping wide. She changed her course, striking her colours as she did so. Miranda had never seen a more beautiful sight than this final victory. Perhaps this was why James tolerated the horror of war, for this one beautiful moment.

“I think you saved my life,” John said, turning to her and flashing her a smile.

And seeing that smile, too, made the horror of the attack, the horror of killing, an acceptable price.

“I'd rather not have to do it again,” Miranda said, shuddering in spite of herself.

“I'd rather you didn't have to do it again either. Nor me, for that matter. The things you'd do for a share of gold.”

John sighed and shook his head, but he was still smiling. Although Miranda could feel him tremble beside her in the aftermath of the battle, he felt strong. She pulled him into her arms and squeezed him tight. Together they were strong, and now they could be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting for this chapter! I know it took ages, Life hasn't been very nice to me since late December. And as you may have spotted, there's a final chapter after this one! Stay tuned, it's already written completely and should be out very soon!
> 
> PS: the Esperanza, Gaspar, Gomez and Fernandez were all stolen from _The Mysterious Cities of Gold_ , a very old animated series that was a big part of my childhood.


	11. Chapter 11

If the voyage from Nassau to Florida had seemed exhausting, it was nothing compared to sailing back to Flint's hidden cove with a heavily laden and undermanned warship and the _Walrus_ in consort. It had taken nearly two days, and when Silver hadn't been cooking, he'd been doing whatever menial tasks more experienced sailors didn't have time to do.

They'd been on alert every minute of every hour, scanning the seas for approaching ships. The _Esperanza_ survivors had likely been able to flee on longboats; every time the lookout spied a large vessel, worry that it might be hunting for them spread through every deck. Arguments about whether or not Flint should have massacred them burst out regularly.

Thankfully, nothing came of it. One sunny afternoon the warship and the _Walrus_ manoeuvred their way into the narrow cove Flint had discovered on the sandy shores of a lush Bahamian island. Never had dropping anchor felt so sweet.

Silver had finally had the luxury of sleeping a few hours in a row before the crew had awoken him and hounded him to prepare a feast. Miranda had joined him in the galley, all smiles, obviously glad that they weren't at sea anymore. As brave as she'd been during the battle, sailing still challenged her constitution.

The warship was soon full of noise and laughter and bustle in the large mess room where tables hung from the ceiling. Silver watched from a distance as men ate and drank and talked. He was still exhausted, still numb and confused after all the events of the past few days. He was rich – in theory, at least. He was rich, and therefore free, and he'd never been so lost as to what he should do next. He never thought that being rich would have actually filled him with unfathomable sadness.

“John?” Miranda said, stopping beside him to speak in his ear. “You're expected in the Captain's cabin.”

It was a strange request, seeing as Flint was sitting at a table, drinking with Rackham and Featherstone. He looked as exhausted as Silver felt, his gaze somewhat absent, as though he were deeply preoccupied. Silver hadn't really spoken to him since their encounter in the _Walrus_. He couldn't tell whether it was because they'd been so busy, or because Flint was avoiding him. The thought of the latter made Silver's heart clench, so he quickly put it out of his mind and did what he was told.

As expected, the Captain's cabin was empty when Silver arrived. He let himself in – Miranda _did_ reside there, after all – and couldn't help but smile at the recollection of that insane day, the day they'd barricaded themselves in the cabin after Miranda shot a man and he'd pushed him overboard. It had been terrifying. It had been elating, too.

“At last,” Miranda sighed, slipping into the room and closing the door. She grinned at Silver. “I thought this time would never come.”

Without further ado, she drew Silver into her arms, peppering his face and lips with light kisses. For some reason, Silver hadn't been expecting it; he'd been too exhausted to divine the reason of her invitation, even though it seemed obvious now. They'd spent so much time absorbed in getting the gold, in getting to safety, that he'd nearly forgotten the heat of Miranda's mouth, the softness of her hands running down his shoulders.

“I've missed you,” she breathed against his skin, and Silver's heart felt like it was going to burst.

“Me too,” he whispered back. Then he remembered where they were. “Isn't this risky?”

“I kindly asked Captain Rackham and Mr Featherstone to give me some privacy tonight.” She kissed him again, sliding her hands along his chest. “They don't mind. They're enjoying the celebration.”

“So they think you're here alone?” Silver asked.

Miranda merely chuckled and kissed him again, her tongue stoking a fire that burned down Silver's spine, right into his cock. He forgot all his questions and doubts, melting into the sensation of her mouth on his, of her hands already unbuttoning his breeches.

At the back of his mind Silver knew Miranda hadn't locked the door, that anyone could burst in looking for Flint or Rackham. And yet he let Miranda walk him backwards to a chair by the desk, even helped her remove his breeches before he sat down.

Miranda smirked at him, then picked up a jug and let a trickle of water run down Silver's chest, starting at the hollow of his neck and soaking his shirt. He chuckled and squirmed at the sudden coolness, and she laughed with him, covering his mouth with another kiss. Then Miranda hiked up Silver's shirt, pulling it over his head, and let more water dribble down his belly. It pooled briefly in his navel, then at the base of his stiffening cock before running off onto the cabin floor.

Freshwater on a ship was a treasure; the crew had gone to the island that afternoon to replenish their stores, but wasting it like this was a luxury. Then again, Miranda was certainly used to luxury, and so was Flint, apparently. This must have been something they'd shared earlier, while Silver was cooking, and now she was sharing it with him, too. Silver felt light-headed at the thought.

Miranda produced a clean rag, poured water onto it and rubbed it with a piece of soap – another luxury. Silver watched in awe as she dabbed and wiped all the way down his chest, his nipples hardening, his wet skin turning to gooseflesh. Miranda's mouth pressed to Silver's chest, down his belly, until she was kneeling between his thighs.

The wet rag enveloped his cock, stroking it to full hardness as she cleaned him. Silver could barely repress a needy whine, and he gasped when Miranda poured more water down his chest, washing away the faint suds, cupping his cock and balls together to better clean them off. She kissed his belly, his hipbone, then let out a happy sigh when her lips moved along the length of his cock. Silver closed his eyes, moaning softly when Miranda's tongue teased at the place where his foreskin joined the head of his cock.

When Silver next glanced up, breath already ragged from Miranda's ministrations, his eyes met Flint's. He gave an involuntary start, and Miranda turned around.

“You took your time,” she told Flint. It wasn't truly a reproach, if the smile on her lips was anything to go by.

Flint didn't react right away; he seemed to be rooted to the spot, eyes dark as they roved over Silver and Miranda. Then he smiled, tongue flicking over his lower lip. “Rackham never shuts up,” he said, sliding the bolt shut on the door.

The sound made Silver shudder with anticipation; Miranda's tongue and mouth drew more shudders from him as they worked his length. Flint was still watching from a distance, watching as Silver moaned and squirmed against the heat of Miranda's mouth tightly wrapping around him. And then Flint gave a wicked, lustful smirk, and strode across the room.

Silver thought he'd come on the spot when Flint bent to kiss him deeply while Miranda sucked his cock. He made the neediest of sounds, twisting on the chair to wrap his arms around Flint and draw him closer. They kissed desperately, as desperately as the first time. Flint's tongue in Silver's mouth, Miranda's tongue on his cock, their hands all over his skin, pushed him to the very brink of ecstasy. Miranda released him from her mouth just before he teetered over the edge, leaving him heaving for breath.

“Do you need a moment?” Flint asked softly, pressing his forehead to Silver's even as his hands stroked along the back of Silver's neck. What was it about Flint's touch? The faintest rub, the gentlest caress, sent thrills through Silver's body.

“I'm fine,” Silver managed to reply.

Still kneeling on the floor, Miranda shifted. Silver watched her, fascinated, as she unfastened Flint's belt then unbuttoned his breeches, pushing them all the way down his hips and releasing his half-hard cock. Flint's breath grew shakier against Silver's skin as Miranda nuzzled him and began teasing him with her tongue.

Silver sucked Flint's lips back between his as Miranda took Flint's cock into her mouth. It was Flint's turn to moan into Silver's mouth, twisting in the awkward position he was standing in, a blush rising on his cheeks. Silver kissed him hungrily, drawing him down to meet him, clinging to Flint's shirt.

Miranda pulled off from Flint's now fully hard and flushed cock, glancing up at them both. “Fewer clothes, please,” she commanded. Silver looked down in time to see her smirk wickedly and give his cock a long lick, from root to tip. He couldn't hold back the surprised sound of delight that escaped his throat, and felt Flint smile against his cheek.

After dropping a few more kisses to Silver's face and throat, Flint straightened up to pull off his shirt. Silver barely had time to admire the muscular planes of his chest, his pink nipples nestled in coppery hair and whorls of freckles, before Flint was beside him again, hot hands sliding along Silver's chest, mouth covering Silver's hungrily. Miranda began teasing each of their cocks in turn with her fingers and mouth, and Silver thought he was going to drown in the sensation of her tongue and Flint's hands exploring his skin.

Then Flint bent to press his lips to the dip at the base of Silver's throat. The tickle of his beard, the graze of his teeth were more than Silver could bear. His fingers dug into Flint's back, latched onto Flint's hair, even as Flint's hands roamed along Silver's skin and his mouth closed over one of Silver's nipples. Miranda chuckled, mouth now around Flint's cock, when Silver moaned aloud.

“The two of you…” Silver gasped. “You're going to kill me.”

And he meant it. They were going to devour him. He was already enraptured, obsessed with them both. They weren't safe. They'd fucking defied the Spanish Armada, fled with millions in gold. It was only a matter of time until Spain or England or both caught up with them. Silver didn't want to be there when that happened, and yet…

Flint was looking up at him with dark, intense eyes. “Want me to stop?” he asked. His eyes were as soft as they were intense. Miranda shifted, looking up at Silver from between his thighs. Her fond smile was the sweetest thing Silver had seen in his life.

“Absolutely not,” Silver breathed with a weak chuckle.

With a wolfish grin, Flint nudged Miranda aside and took her place between Silver's legs, his mouth trailing burning kisses all the way down Silver's stomach. He kissed his way all along the inside of Silver's thigh, the scrape of his beard sending thrills all through Silver's belly. Silver could barely believe what was about to happen, but then Flint took his cock in his mouth and the world seemed to tumble upside down.

Though it seemed obvious now that Flint would be as adept at sucking a man off as he would be at anything else he turned his hand to, Silver couldn't help but be surprised at how fucking amazing Flint's mouth felt wrapped around the head of his cock. Shivers went up Silver's spine as Flint looked up at him with fire in his eyes, strong hands gripping Silver's hips as his mouth worked along his length.

Miranda curled around Flint's back, kissing at the nape of his neck. She started moaning softly, hiking her skirts up and sliding her hands beneath them. Silver couldn't tear his eyes away from either of them even as he felt his balls tighten and his cock stiffen even further.

“Captain,” he whined. “Fuck, I… I'm going to–”

Flint sped up, sucking harder than ever, fingers wrapped around the base of Silver's cock, his wicked tongue expertly rolling around its head.

Pleasure burst through Silver and he came with a gasp, fingers tangled in Flint's hair, choking down what could have been a scream of ecstasy if he'd let it escape his throat. Flint moaned softly, sucking and licking Silver through the aftershocks of orgasm, swallowing his spend without the faintest trace of distaste.

“See? To the last drop,” Flint said smugly once he'd released Silver's cock.

Silver hung exhausted in his seat for a while, watching as Miranda perched on the desk, and Flint rose after her. He watched as she pulled her skirts up around her waist and exposed her glistening cunt. He watched Flint sank into her and started fucking her soundly. Miranda certainly didn't restrain her voice when she made herself come; if anything, she got louder with every crest of pleasure.

Silver joined them when he felt certain that his legs would carry him, twisting down onto the desk to kiss Miranda and worry her breasts, reaching a hand between them to stroke her clit. It wasn't long until Miranda came again, moaning out into Silver's mouth.

Silver left her shuddering on the table, snaking behind Flint. He explored the skin along Flint's shoulders with his lips, running his hands over the coarse hair of Flint's chest, even daring to tease a nipple. Silver was still amazed that Flint allowed him to do so, that he moaned with pleasure under Silver's touch. Silver was even more amazed that Flint shamelessly rubbed his arse against Silver's hardening cock, in spite of everything this position implied. If anything, it seemed to arouse Flint even more; his breath started to come in short, shaky gasps, and his hips worked faster and faster as he thrust into Miranda.

This lasted considerably longer than Silver expected. After a while, Flint gave a breathless sigh and slowed his movements. “Don't think that's going anywhere,” he muttered, more for Miranda than for Silver.

She merely smiled at him. “You're still exhausted, love.”

Flint nudged Silver backwards so that he could withdraw, and only then did Silver realise this was what Flint had mentioned when they'd been on the _Walrus_ together. He'd only half believed it then.

“Sure I can't help?” he asked Flint with a smile, sliding his hands down Flint's belly, towards his cock. It was still fucking hard and deeply flushed.

“Certain,” Flint said, grabbing Silver's wrists in his hand. “I'm getting sore.” Perhaps Silver's disappointment was obvious, because then Flint twisted back to catch Silver's eye, and smiled. “Hopefully I'll fare better when we get home.”

 _Home_. When _they_ got home. Silver's heart soared and froze all at once at the prospect of being included in what Flint called home.

Flint seemed to realise what he'd just said and his face twitched with a wince before he looked away. They both knew what Silver had said he'd do once he got the gold, after all. Silver took a step away from Flint, giving him – or himself – space to breathe. Behind Flint, Miranda drew herself up on the desk. She wrapped Flint into her arms, placing her chin on his shoulder to better look at Silver. She seemed to be the only one who didn't find the situation awkward.

“Well of course, we'll certainly have plenty of opportunities to try again,” Silver said brightly, grinning his most terrified grin. “I mean, we have to share out the gold, get back to Nassau, have it changed to something more portable… it could be weeks yet.”

“And so many things can happen over the course of a few weeks,” Miranda said, with a knowing smile that suggested she was certain that everything would work out the way she intended, even if Silver or Flint didn't know it yet. One thing Silver did know was that he adored her and feared her in equal measure.

“Right,” Silver said. He smirked at Flint, who finally turned in Miranda's arms and glanced at Silver. “We could be friends by then.”

Flint gave an amused huff and stepped out of Miranda's arms to kiss Silver. Flint's lips burned hot on Silver's, melting away his fears, reawakening his flagging cock. When they broke apart, Miranda was standing beside Silver. She claimed his lips too, wanton and soft all at once. Then she took his hand and led him to a makeshift bed set up beneath one of the great windows.

“I think we're already a little more than friends, dear,” she told Silver, drawing him between her thighs to finish what Flint had started.

There would be no escaping these two dangerous, fascinating people. Silver comforted himself with the knowledge that there were much worse ways to end than a free and rich man, consumed by passion for a pirate and his mistress.

* * *

 

When Flint awoke he found himself alone in the Captain's cabin, curled up on the window seat where he, Miranda and Silver had ended up falling into a disorderly pile. He was wearing drawers and a shirt, but barely had any recollection of having put them on. Neither did he recall when Silver had slipped away, or whether Rackham and Featherstone had returned that night. He'd slept like the dead.

He and Miranda and Silver. Their alliance was still tenuous, he knew. He'd seen the panic on Silver's face at the suggestion that he might stay with them. Flint didn't blame him. Silver may have been sincere when he claimed not to see Flint as a villain, but he was clever enough to know that trouble followed Flint wherever he went. Trouble had followed Flint since the day he was born.

Flint dressed slowly, finding a clean shirt and breeches, then pulling on the long Spanish leather coat. He glanced at himself critically in the mirror, aware of how unkempt he looked, unruly beard growing over yellowing bruises. Soon enough, the bruises would fade, and there would be time to take better care of himself. He longed for the comfort of his own bed after a night in the hard, cramped cot by the window.

When he walked on deck, Flint found a lot of rather lazy sailors dozing in various shaded corners, and Miranda sitting at a desk in the cool darkness of the lower deck, working on accounts with Rackham and Featherstone.

He could barely believe that only a few days ago, he'd put her in mortal peril. He could barely believe that she'd shot a Spanish lieutenant and saved herself – and Silver, by the sound of it. What would Thomas have said, if he'd found out that Flint had let Miranda sail with him and had put her in danger?

The thought worked like an icy bucket of water, making Flint's chest squeeze until he couldn't breathe.

What would Thomas think? Flint tried hard never to ask himself that question. Ever since he'd become a pirate, neglected Miranda, slaughtered Lord Hamilton, Flint had tried to bury the thought away. What would Thomas think of him now, inviting another man into his bed, vengeance dulled by their recent victory? Would he see it as the natural course of things, or as a betrayal of his memory?

“James?”

He hadn't seen Miranda climb up from the lower deck to join him. Her hands pressed against his chest, smoothing down the fabric of his shirt. The tightness in Flint's lungs eased a little.

“Are you all right?” she asked with a small smile, clearly aware that he was not. She knew him like no other.

“I suppose,” he breathed.

Miranda hooked her arm around his and started a slow walk around the main deck. “We've made a final tally of the gold. A little under five million Spanish dollars, as expected.”

Flint nodded. He'd seen the gold himself time and again, and yet he could still barely believe that it was theirs. He could barely believe that he was at a point where he had no precise plan of action for the next step, that the future gaped before him, formless and empty.

“Captain Rackham is incredibly shrewd where it comes to money matters,” Miranda continued. “It sounds as though he's thinking up ways of keeping the bulk of the gold in Nassau and setting up a bank of sorts. The money would officially belong to the men, of course, but he believes he could find ways of investing what part of it they aren't spending immediately.”

“I can't say that surprises me,” Flint said. “He was always the brains of Vane's operation. But of course for that to work, we need to keep the gold safe in the fort and–”

“And before you start dreaming up plans of taking the fort by force, please consider that Captain Rackham is not only persuasive, but also on rather friendly terms with Captain Vane. And that he also believes Miss Guthrie may yet be able to persuade Captain Vane.”

Flint grunted. “I suppose it's worth a try.”

Miranda's mouth twisted into a smile that was both indulgent and somewhat bitter. “But you would rather have a new adversary than a new ally?”

Perhaps Flint did. Sorting things out with Vane – or perhaps putting a stop to him once and for all – would at least keep Flint busy for a while. Once he stopped being busy… God knew what would happen once he stopped being busy.

“I do still hold hope that you'll retire from this, one day,” Miranda said quietly. Flint squeezed her arm a little tighter.

“If anyone could tempt me away from it, it's you.”

Miranda smirked. “I know someone else who would much rather you retired than dragged him into dangerous adventures.” She nodded towards the quarterdeck. Silver was leaning on the railing, hair blowing in the breeze, sweat beading on his golden skin, eyes glittering like gems.

“He can talk,” Flint said, covering the flutter in his stomach at the sight of Silver with gruffness, “he roped you into a harebrained Juan Da Silva plot when you could just as well have stayed safe in the cabin.”

“And I wouldn't have had it any other way.” Miranda frowned a little. “Not that I care to be in that sort of situation again either. Shooting a man brought me much less satisfaction than I would have anticipated.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” There was enough vengeance and bloodlust in Flint, without Miranda developing a taste for it too. “And I'll do my best to stay on land and not drag anyone into dangerous adventures, after we go home.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep, my love,” Miranda said with a chuckle.

“Not to drag anyone dear to me into danger, then,” Flint amended.

Miranda pressed closer to him, squeezing his arm. “You try and stop us from following you.”

 _Us_. Flint's eyes sought out Silver, who was watching them with a somewhat distant, guarded expression. When Flint's eyes met Silver's, Silver's features softened and he sauntered down the stairs to join them, a smug grin spreading on his face.

“Fine day to be a rich man, isn't it, Captain?”

Flint couldn't help but smirk back at him. “Fine indeed, Mr Silver.”

“And is it really the sort of weather to be wearing that coat, or is he just trying to drive us insane?” Silver asked Miranda in a low murmur.

Miranda chuckled and ran a hand over Flint's coat sleeve. “The latter, I believe,” she replied.

“It protects me from the sun,” Flint told them, his tone stern, but fondness warming his heart. He hadn't been quite aware, up until then, that the coat was an object of fascination for them. He filed this knowledge away for future use.

“Right, of course,” Silver said, eyes following Miranda's fingers on the leather. There was a hungry, envious look on his face that sent a thrill down Flint's back. Whatever was budding between them _certainly_ still needed to be explored, doubts and guilt be damned.

“You see, dear, there's plenty of things for you to do once you retire,” Miranda told Flint, straight-faced, patting his chest encouragingly.

Flint shot her a glare, and hoped that nobody would notice the blush rising in his cheeks. Silver grinned, shy, hesitant, clearly still battling with himself about whether he should stay involved with them or run away while he could.

“So you're considering retirement?” Silver asked Flint, his shoulder nudging Flint's as if on accident.

“It was more or less the plan after we got the gold and made Nassau secure,” Flint said. “Though that last part may still require some work.”

“You know…” Silver hesitated, his smile brittle. “You know, I've actually travelled around quite a bit. If you're looking for advice on a nice warm safe place to live out your retirement, I may have a few suggestions.” Flint hadn't taken his eyes off him, and Silver seemed to balk under his gaze. He chuckled to himself, shifting nervously on his feet. “Perhaps not St Augustine, though, we have a bit of a reputation there.”

Flint smiled, and Silver's stance relaxed somewhat. “We may well take you up on that, Mr Silver.”

Silver breathed a sigh of relief, and his smile suddenly shone brighter than gold. Flint allowed himself to be blinded by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! As promised! Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting and supporting me through this story. You're the best fandom I've ever written for and I hope you enjoyed reading this piece, which has grown very close to my heart.


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